


Harbinger of Faith

by RiversEnd



Series: Confluence [3]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Deviates From Canon, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, blatantly trying to not rehash cut scenes, so i'm writing everything else, we've all played
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiversEnd/pseuds/RiversEnd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men are suddenly thrown together in a world falling apart. One has lost his faith in the Maker, the other his faith in humanity. Together they may just discover neither has failed as they believe. If they can survive the end of the world, that is. Maybe the Maker does care, and in even the worst of situations, love still exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And my Inquisition story finally begins. Meet Aedmon Trevelyan.

Aedmon Trevelyan sat in the corner of the tavern, attempting to laugh and drink with the Chargers. All the while, he silently watched the newest addition to their rather eclectic group he had started to collect for the Inquisition.  Though why anyone would allow him to collect people for their fledgling organization was beyond him.  Months ago he was in chains, shackled as the alleged murderer of the Divine and over a thousand others. Now he was the Herald of Andraste, prophet and savior of Thedas.  None of it made sense to him.  Neither did his latest companion.

The man was a complete enigma, wrapped in sarcasm and leather.  The stranger defied almost everything Aedmon had been taught about Tevinter and her mages.  He was far from being the psychopathic, cliché villain the rest of the world painted his fellow mages to be.  He wasn't bent on world domination, nor did he subscribe to the rather unorthodox means of magic as did many of the Tevinter mages Trevelyan had recently met, like the strange Venatori that had mysteriously and recently become an issue in Redcliffe and the rest of southern Thedas.  Most of all, he wasn't a blood mage.  If the Chantry was to be believed, the man should at least be a blood mage.

Then again, when was the last time he believed something the Chantry told him?

Bull said something, slapping his shoulder to get his attention.

"I'm sorry, Bull. I wasn't paying attention," he mumbled absently.  "Got a lot on my mind, what with our heading out to the Breach tomorrow and all."  He hoped the excuse worked, that he hadn't been caught staring at the mage who was ensconced next to the fire, leaning towards it as if his life depended on its warmth.

"I noticed, boss. But I don't think it's the Breach that has you distracted," the Qunari said with a laugh.

Trevelyan groaned, bringing his hands up to his face and resting his elbows on the table. He felt, rather than saw Dorian, as the mage stood up from his seat near the fire and left the tavern.

"I don't claim to understand what the two of you went through back in Redcliffe," Bull continued. "Honestly, I don't want to. Weird time magic is well outside my range of comfort.  But if it's bothering you, and he's the only one that understands, then go talk to him."

That was the other thing. Redcliffe.  No matter how he tried to wrap his mind around it, the experience just wouldn't quite fit.  The entire experience for him was just as Bull explained, outside his comfort zone.  He had seen the Breach as it would be if he failed, expanded and ripped open even farther, the tear in the Veil encompassing the entirety of the sky. He had seen his friends and companions, new as they were, die for him.  It was too much.

"I saw you die," he mumbled into his hands.  "The demons drug your lifeless body back into the hall and tossed you aside like a ragdoll.  And I couldn't do anything.  All I could do was stand there and pray that Dorian could reverse that damned spell."

"Boss…"

"I prayed," he laughed.  "I actually prayed to the Maker that it could be undone.  That Dorian could right things and I could see you and Cassandra alive just once more."  He sat up, turning himself to look Bull square in the eye.  "Now before you remind me, I understand. You're a mercenary. You get paid to fight, and possibly die for other people's causes.  I get that.  But it doesn't change the fact that in that one moment, I was so terrified I called on a Maker I don't even believe in anymore, regardless of what title they may give me."

Bull stared at him, unsure what to say.  "Shit," Aedmon cursed, draining the last of his mug.  "I'm hardly fit drinking company tonight. Sorry, Bull," he said as he got up from the table.  "I'll see you in the morning, before we head out."

"Night, boss," Bull replied, as the man got up to leave.  He watched Trevelyan leave the tavern and shook his head. Weird time magic really was outside his range of understanding. 

*****

Dorian stood outside the doors of the Chantry, huddling in his thin cloak, cursing the Maker for creating snow.  Alexius was just past these doors, underneath the main floor of the chapel, under lock and key. Part of him wanted to go to his former mentor, to ask him why he would sell his ideals short and join forces with the Venatori.  Part of him already understood.  Felix was dying, and there was nothing any of them could do about it.  Still.  It hurt for him to see Alexius, someone he respected and loved, turn away from everything he had tried to instill in Dorian.

With a sigh, the mage ran his hand across his face, then shivered in the cold.  He turned away from the Chantry door. Why did he torment himself like this? He would get no new answers, no matter how hard he looked. 

"You can go in, you know," an amused voice said from the direction of the quartermaster's tent.  He turned again, seeing the Herald walking toward him.  "I'm sure the Maker wouldn't strike you down just for crossing the threshold of one of his chapels," the man said with a smirk and a wry laugh.

"Yes," Dorian purred.  "I'm sure even the Maker would consider smiting me a waste of perfection."

"Even though that may be, you stay out in this cold much longer, and you'll do his job for him."  There was a glint of mischief in Trevelyan's eyes.  "Beautiful Tevinter flower such as yourself, you're far better suited to warmer climes than this.  I'm sure you'll wilt if we don't get you warm soon."

"Wouldn't be such a problem if the weather here wasn't as barbaric as the rest of you Fereldan dog lords."

"Free Marcer, remember?" Trevelyan pointed towards his chest.

Dorian chuckled at that.  "Almost as bad."

"Be that as it may," Trevelyan continued.  "I happen to have come into possession of a rather vintage bottle of whiskey.  Should warm you up in no time.  Care to join me?"

"Should you really be seen conversing with me, the vile Tevinter mage, in the dead of night? Is that even proper?"

"Propriety be damned," Aedmon growled.  "I've never been much of a fan of it anyway.  Besides, I need to get good and drunk, and no one here really understands what happened.  They can't begin to wrap their minds around it.  Hell, I can't even wrap my mind around it, and I lived it."  The man ran his hand over his hair, tucking a stray strand back into his elaborate braid. Then absently drug his hand down the back of his neck and then up into his beard, scratching at it nervously. "Hence the desperate need to get drunk."

"Well," Dorian said, sliding his arm through Aedmon's.  "If you've got a rare vintage that you're willing to share, then I believe you have a drinking partner for the night.  But should you do this?  I mean we are attempting to close the Breach tomorrow and all."

"I just need to wiggle my fingers, remember?" Trevelyan said with a smirk, wiggling his fingers exaggeratedly in front of them.

Dorian laughed. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I?"

Trevelyan nodded. "You did."

"Then lead on, oh mighty Herald!  Let's put those magical fingers of yours to good use."  Dorian blushed as soon as the words were out his mouth. What in the Void was he thinking? "Like opening vintage bottles of whiskey," he amended quickly, hoping that Trevelyan wouldn't take his incessant, and sometimes incontrollable need to flirt when he was nervous, the wrong way.  He didn't even know if the man remotely shared similar tastes as him.  Besides, he didn't think seducing the southern Chantry's Herald of Andraste would endear him to them anymore than he already was.

*****

Dorian woke up on the floor in front of a dying fire, the weight of someone curled up against him and a hoard of angry darkspawn pounding at the inside of his skull. Aedmon hadn't lied when he said it was a rare vintage whiskey.  Where the young man had found it, Dorian didn't want to know considering what little bit of dust and mud that was still caked under the bottom of the bottle was suspect. Still, his head throbbed with the weight of a terrifying hangover that only the best of liquors could provide. 

He stretched, slightly, testing to see if he could extricate himself from Trevelyan's hold without waking the man, only to have Aedmon's arms tighten around him. He sighed.  There was no way to get out of this gracefully.

"Really?" Cassandra's dry, unamused voice sounded from near the door to the small house Aedmon occupied. 

"Would you believe me if I said that none of this was my fault?" Dorian asked.

The Seeker just scrunched her nose in disgust and shook her head. 

Aedmon chose that moment to wake.  "Morning," he said sleepily.  Despite his scandalous position, draped as he was across Dorian, the man made no attempt to move. "My head is killing me. It's like there's a rift inside there, just waiting to explode."

"Yes, well don't look now, my dear Herald.  But we have company."

"What?"

Dorian nodded in the direction of Cassandra where she still stood, watching the events on the floor in front of her unfold with a growing dislike. 

"Ugh…" her nose curled even more.  "When you have the time, the others are waiting for you in the Chantry to finalize things before we move out," she said before turning to leave.

"Yes ma'am," Trevelyan replied like a scolded child as he sat up slowly, still clutching his head. Dorian had to admit, the man was still gorgeous, even hung over.  His hair had come unbound sometime during the night and now cascaded past his shoulder blades in dark, mahogany waves.  And though his beard was slightly disheveled, it didn't detract from the rest of his face, slightly broken nose, scars and all.

Cassandra made one final noise of disgust as she shut the door behind her.

"You would think she found us in the throes of passion, naked and completely debauched instead of fully clothed and passed out drunk for all the fuss she just made," Dorian said.

"I think it's more for the passed out drunk the morning of a major mission than anything else, Dorian," Trevelyan said warily.  Was that a blush Dorian saw dusting the rogue's cheeks? 

"She is more of the all work and no play, sort, isn't she?" Dorian mused.

"Yes, well, we can't all be noble, pariah, playboys, now can we?" Aedmon answered with a wry laugh only to clutch at his head again.

"True. I do rather like being an original."

Aedmon stood, carefully and extended his hand to Dorian.  "Come on," he said.  "Let's go join our darling Seeker in the Chantry before she busts a blood vessel in frustration."

In response, Dorian gripped Trevelyan's hand and allowed the man to help pull him to his feet. His heart pounding in time with his head, he tried desperately to ignore the strength of that hand, or the ease with which Aedmon lifted him from the floor.    

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting will be some what irregular. I have the first two chapters finished. And the fourth. And two or three other half chapters and random bits as well. Sorry in advance for any extended waits between chapters. Also... I'm not much of one for going over gameplay that we all know (I'm guessing we've all played already... It's why we're here... hopefully...) I'll also not use much game dialogue. I'm too lazy to look it up, and don't really feel like using it. Since this exists in a world where Hawke and Fenris have the beginnings of a rather large family, I may tweak a few things timeline/plot wise as well. But it will mostly follow the game.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is sealed. Aedmon, however, does not feel like celebrating. Varric and Dorian feel the need to correct this.

What began that night, drunkenly on the floor in front of Aedmon's fire, continued as the days passed. They didn't drink every night. Nor did they meet every night. But the camaraderie that began with a bottle of whiskey and a shared traumatic event would not be denied. It didn't hurt that Dorian was one of the few not entranced by Aedmon's title as prophet and chosen of the Maker. Tonight, however, the rogue preferred to be alone, not wanting company of any sort.

The Breach was sealed, and with it Aedmon's reputation and title as Herald of Andraste. He could no longer walk from his tiny cabin in Haven to the Chantry without at least half a dozen people calling out to him, wishing him a good day, asking for the Maker's blessing on them or on him.

It chafed.

He was a man. A normal, everyday man. He was nothing like a saint. His past was sure to demonstrate that fact.  But no one seemed to care that he was the youngest of six, a rebellious, bratty younger sibling known for his drunken brawls.  His family had wanted him to join the Chantry.  At least one Trevelyan every generation did so, but he had other ideas. He wanted to see more of the world than just the inside of the Ostwick Chantry.  So, at a young age, he enlisted with the guard instead, much to his father's dismay.  His mother, on the other hand, had gifted him with a rather impressive set of daggers after he came home to announce his commission.  In the months that followed, she managed to convince his father to accept his choice.  It didn't hurt that his sister, the youngest of the four girls in their large family, had come to the conclusion that court life was not for her and had chosen instead to take vows of religious life within the Chantry as a Sister.

The memory of his sister stung, bringing tears to his eyes.  She was the reason he had been at the Conclave in the first place. After eight years of service to the Ostwick Chantry, she had been chosen to accompany their representative to the Divine.  She was still considered young, but her service, as well as her title, gave her some advantages. As a result of the Templars abandoning their post within the Chantry, and with his position in the guard, he had been assigned as their escort to ensure their safety. 

Obviously he had failed.

That was the day he had lost his faith in the Maker.  He refused to believe in a god that would allow for such senseless destruction. Such waste.  Truly talented and devout people had died in that explosion.  Yet he had survived.  His gentle, loving sister had died and he had not.  Instead, he had been condemned to survive, to crawl out of the Fade with some strange, magical mark placing the fate of the entirety of Thedas literally in the palm of his hand.  If there was a Maker, he hated him.  The feeling was mutual, he was sure.  After all, this could only be his punishment for years of blasphemy and selfishness.

"Can I come in?" Dorian's voice called from the door, setting his staff just inside as he crossed the threshold.  "Or is this an exclusive brooding session you have going on in here?"

Aedmon laughed a little at that, turning from where he stood, staring out the window at the growing festivities.  "No, not exclusive," he lied.  "Please come in."

"Good," Dorian continued with a smile.  "Because I've been sent here by a rather meddlesome dwarf who thinks you need to be more sociable."

"Really?"

"Yes," Dorian drawled.  "I'm not sure all of what he said.  I started to tune him out about halfway through.  But it was something to the affect of knowing someone else like you, and that you'd be able to teach each other a lesson or two about perfecting the art of brooding.  And that no one should be alone during their own victory party."

"It doesn't feel like much of a victory," Aedmon sighed.

"You sure? You did just seal the Breach and save Thedas from a threat greater than the Blight."

Aedmon sat on the floor, flopping next to the fire.  "Let them have their moment," he sighed.

"What brought this on?" Dorian asked, rummaging through the bottles on Trevelyan's shelf, choosing one and procuring a pair of cups from the topmost shelf. He sat down beside the young man, opened the bottle while trying to ignore the suspicious looking mold that hadn't quite been cleaned off the bottle's label, and poured two generous helpings.  Handing one to Aedmon, he sniffed gingerly at his, trying to decide whether or not the inevitable hangover would be worth it or not.

"Why me?" Aedmon questioned, knocking back a large sip of whatever it was Dorian had found on his shelf.  "I just don't get it.  There were far more important people, more skilled and devout people at the Conclave. How did I end up being there, right at the moment that…?"  He shook his head.  The lack of memory was weighing heavily on him.  "And why the Conclave?  Why the Divine?  Who in the Void is this 'Elder One' and why does he want to destroy the world? I may have sealed the Breach, but in the process, I've managed, multiple times, to circumvent his plans. Whoever he his, he is powerful. I can't imagine someone with that kind of twisted mind stopping because one upstart rogue shit on his plans. Hell, he's probably pissed beyond reason and plotting my inevitable demise even as we speak."

Dorian just stared at Trevelyan, shocked into speechlessness. 

"What?"

"The dwarf was right.  You really do know how to kill a mood," he said as he quickly finished the remainder of his drink hurriedly and re-corked the bottle.  Setting both the bottle and his cup on the hearth, the mage stood up, straightened his clothes and reached down for Aedmon's arm, not giving the man a choice.  "Up you go," he said, pulling on Aedmon, forcing him to stand.  "And out the door." 

He placed his hands on Trevelyan's broad shoulders and turned the man, pushing him out the door. All the while Dorian fought a sudden surge of desire, trying not to blush at the feel of the man's muscles beneath his fingers, or the sudden image of how those muscles might look in a different light, above him while he scored their broad expanse with his nails. He couldn't help but wonder if the rest of the man was as toned and well built as his shoulders, and his narrow, tapered waist did seem to be made for Dorian to wrap his legs around. Dorian shook his head. Now was not the time for such fancies. He was done with seducing people. It was far too complicated, and always ended badly.  No, he would be better off chasing such thoughts away and remaining alone.

"Wait…!" Aedmon tried to protest as Dorian pushed across the threshold of the cabin and out into the cold evening of Haven.

"No. You are going to come with me," Dorian blushed again, thankful that Aedmon was in front of him and unable to turn around.  "You are going to sit with me at Varric's fire, assuage his fears, get raging drunk, and enjoy this victory.  Let Cullen and Cassandra worry about this Elder One.  Maker knows they never stop with the worry.  Tomorrow has enough trouble of its own, so leave well enough alone tonight."

Aedmon huffed. Actually huffed. Dorian chuckled at the sound. Was their great and mighty Herald pouting?  "Look who I found, Varric!" he called out as he continued to push his reluctant companion towards the warmth of the dwarf's fire.  "You were right.  He was holed up, alone, in that miserable cabin of his.  Whoever this brooding friend of yours is in comparison, he must be a real joy to be around."

"He can be," Varric replied with a laugh.  "Good to have in a fight, though.  I've never seen anyone quite like him on the battlefield."

"Certainly, Bull…" Dorian asked as he pushed Aedmon to sit on a crate near the fire and passed him the tankard that Varric handed him.  He stood just behind the rogue, his hand on the man's shoulder to keep him sitting, sure that he would bolt the first chance he had. Much to his delight, Aedmon didn't seem to mind.  Instead, he shifted subtly, leaning slightly towards Dorian in response to the man's hold. Instinctively, Dorian took a step forward, allowing Aedmon to lean against his hip.  He deliberately ignored the mischievous glint in Varric's eyes.

"Nope, Sparkler. Not even Bull could compare to this guy.  Though Broody doesn't get aroused by fighting.  Thank the Maker for that."  He handed Dorian a tankard for himself.

Dorian nodded, wondering just how much truth there was to Varric's assessment of his friend. He knew the dwarf could spin a tale just as well as he could shoot his crossbow.  Not all of what he spun was true, but there was always a kernel of truth to everything he said.  Frustrating habit, really.

"So what are we drinking, tonight?" he asked as he lifted the offered tankard to his lips.

"I won a cask of Chasind Sack Mead off of Bull last week.  I figured tonight was as good a reason as any to break into it."

"Good man!" Dorian replied with a heartfelt laugh.  "And not just for your choice in drink.  How badly did Bull have to lose in order to give up one of his precious casks?"

Varric only smiled in response.

"You know, you can be an evil man, sometimes."

"I try," the dwarf replied with a laugh.  "Keeps everyone guessing."

The sudden, shrill clanging of the warning bell from one of the watchtowers broke the merriment. Aedmon sprung to his feet, dropping his mug in his haste.  "What…?" He looked to the gates.

"Go," Dorian said.  "I'll go get your daggers from the cabin and meet you at the gates."

Aedmon nodded, turning with Varric to race towards the gates while Dorian headed off to retrieve Aedmon's daggers from the cabin as well as his staff that he had left there earlier.

*****

Dorian came to a quick halt behind Aedmon and Cullen where they stood just outside the gates of Haven, speaking with a strange young man wearing the most ridiculous of hats.

"The Elder One," the boy pointed ominously to the rise across the frozen lake.

Dorian looked up at the creature that was cresting the hill.  Never before had he seen its like.  It was as if red lyrium grew out of the creature.

Beside him, Varric shook his head in confused terror.  "He's supposed to be dead…" his faint voice almost too soft for Dorian to hear. 

He was about to ask, but Cullen was already barking orders at the soldiers, giving the mages their command to engage the enemy at will.  Everyone was scrambling.  Civilians were running, scared beyond measure, towards the safety of the Chantry, soldiers and mages fanning out to meet the enemy. Only they had never had a chance to fight alongside each other.  Even Dorian knew they didn't have the skill, the familiarity, or the tactics to take on an entire invading army.  Nor was Haven built to withstand any type of onslaught.  No matter how hard they tried, he knew, beyond a doubt, that there was only one outcome for the battle.

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta. Though I'm relatively confident in my grammatical skills, I am far from perfect. Any and all mistakes are my own. Please be gentle if you find any. If you feel the need, comment and I will fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Varric-centered chapter. Haven has been destroyed and Varric tries to cope with the resurrection of Corypheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered what would be Varric's initial reaction to seeing Corypheus as he begins his assault on Haven. I remember mine. It involved a rather late night and a lot of swearing and cursing Bioware while trying not to wake my son (who hadn't gotten that far in the game at that time) by shouting "But I already killed you, you bastard!" (Honestly... I threw a small tantrum in the kitchen) So... here is my somewhat lame attempt at trying to put all of that into words...

Andraste's flaming ass. An Archdemon, Varric cursed. Not only was it an Archdemon, but it was an Archdemon that spit red lyrium.  He had to speak to Cullen about this, about Corypheus as well as his pet dragon.  The more he thought about it, the more his guilt over finding that damned Thaig with Bartrand ate at him.  If they hadn't found that damned idol… And now the Herald was lost, buried under a mountain of snow.

"You know," Dorian's lilting voice spoke from behind him, "I distinctly remember you lecturing me about the dangers of brooding."  The mage smiled at him.  Or at least he attempted to smile.  The gesture was weary and strained.

"I did, didn't I, Sparkler?"

Dorian nodded as he stood next to the dwarf, trying to warm himself by the fire. "Do you want to talk about it?" he offered.

"Yes," Varric replied.  "But I really need to talk to Cullen about it.  The Council are the ones that really need to know this tale.  But they're busy…" he gestured over to where the four, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra were arguing once again.

"It does seem that way," Dorian said.  He wasn't going to push the issue, much as he wanted to.  Instead, he just stood there, sharing the warmth of the fire with the other man.  If Varric wanted to talk, he would.  Though he would admit the dwarf's silence unsettled him.  Varric was, if anything, rarely silent. He had heard Varric's terrified whisper the moment the Elder One was revealed.  After everything he had already been through, the opening of the Breach, being thrown forward into time and then back, finding a possible place for himself, albeit among some of the strangest people he had yet to meet, he did not doubt that the dwarf knew the crazed monster that claimed to be an ancient Magister.  Nor did he doubt that Varric thought the creature dead.  Stranger things had, quite literally, happened over the past few months. 

He lost track of how long the two of them stood there in silence, staring at the flames of the fire they, and several others, were gathered around.  It was Cole, the strange young man they had picked up immediately before the battle that brought them out of their awkward, heavy brooding.

"Cold. Shivering.  Maker, they were just here.  Embers still warm."  Broken words tumbled from his lips as he walked quickly across the camp to where Cullen now stood, silent himself, no longer arguing with his fellow council members.  "Just a few more steps.  Please let them find me.  Can't go farther."

"What?" Cullen asked, confused.

"He's up there," Cole pointed to the pass they had finally came through late last night. "The scouts returned early. Told no one.  Too cold and windy to keep watch.  No one could survive that anyway, so why bother."

"You mean the Herald…?"

"Yes."

Cullen was furious, running, shouting to Cassandra, sending a runner off to find out who was supposed to be on watch up in the pass for just this reason.  Varric prayed that they weren't too late, that the Herald would be found before he could freeze to death in the snow.

*****

Dorian hovered. Well he hovered as best he could without looking like he was hovering.  Aedmon lay, unconscious for more than a day as Mother Giselle and the healers tried their best to keep him warm and heal what damage the cold and snow had done to his body.  He was ignored, for the most part as just about everyone in camp was doing the same at one point or another.  They were only sent away if they got too close, or if they got in the way.

Still. He tried to fight the feeling of relief that washed over him when Aedmon first woke up, even if he wasn't allowed to visit with him.  No one was, for that matter.  Mother Giselle hovered like hen, clucking at anyone that came within speaking distance of the Herald.  He needed his rest, she told them.  He was fine, she assured the others.  Dorian shook his head in frustration.  If the old crow wasn't even letting the Council into the sick tent, he knew he, the dreadful Tevinter Magister, would never stand a chance at even sneaking a look, let alone visiting Aedmon.  No, he would have to wait until Trevelyan was deemed fit to resume his place among them, or he grew tired of being watched by the overbearing Mother. Which ever happened first.

*****

Varric nearly collapsed with relief when they brought the Herald back into camp.  Yes, he was unconscious and half-frozen. But he was still alive. The boy was resilient and would bounce back in no time.  At least, that's what Varric told himself to beat back the guilt that still crept around the edges of his every thought. 

It was after Aedmon finally decided he had had enough of Mother Giselle's caretaking and resumed his meeting with the Council that the dwarf finally found the courage to approach their spymaster, asking for a favor.

Even then, Varric approached Leliana hesitantly.  "Um… Nightingale…" he began with uncharacteristic trepidation.

"What is it, Varric," Leliana laughed lightly.  It was a good sound to hear.  There had been few reasons to laugh or celebrate since Haven, the Herald having been found the only real bright spot to their current situation.

"Can I borrow one of your birds?  I need to let Hawke know that I survived the attack on Haven.  In her condition, I don't think adding the stress of having sent her best friend to his death would be a good thing." 

He tried to stand still, to not shift from foot to foot as he wanted to do underneath her scrutinizing gaze.  Of course she would see through him, would know that there was more to his concern than just letting Hawke know he was still alive.  Still, he wasn't ready to broach the subject of Corypheus with the others. They had greater things to worry about at the moment.  Like surviving until they found whatever stronghold Solas had promised the Herald lay ahead of them.  Once they found a place to rebuild, instead of a wandering tent city, he would be sure to tell Trevelyan and his advisors what he knew.

"Of course, Varric."

"Thanks."

*****

Leliana watched Varric walk back to his fire.  Something was bothering the dwarf.  He had been distant, almost pensive since Corypheus attacked Haven. There was also more to his letter than he was telling her.  Making a mental note to herself to watch him a little more closely, and to have another agent or two look into his affairs, she attached the letter to one of her ravens.  What could the Champion of Kirkwall possibly know about the situation that Varric would need to lie about sending a letter just for Hawke's peace of mind?

*****

A few days later, Hawke sat in her garden listening to her girls, oblivious to the trouble in the world, play happily, a letter in her lap and fear in her heart.

_Hawke,_

_Well shit.  Where do I begin?  I know what you're thinking.  Me. At a loss for words. That never happens._

_Well this is one for the record books._

_First let me start with the fact that the rumors of my demise at Haven are greatly exaggerated.  Most of us made it out alive thanks to the Herald's crazy ass tactics.  Would you believe the fool dropped a mountain on top of himself?  And survived?  I couldn't write this shit, if I tried.  No one would believe it.  That man has to have the worst luck I have seen, and I worked with you for almost a decade._

_We really did see some crazy shit, didn't we?_

_I still think he's the best hope we have for fixing Blondie's mess, but this just got larger than that.  We finally discovered who attacked the Conclave and is responsible for both the Breach and the death of the Divine._

_It's Corypheus, Hawke._

_I don't know how, but that crazy ancient Tevinter bastard is still alive, and he has a pet Archdemon that spits red lyrium. He wants to set himself up as a new god, to walk the Fade and replace the Maker.  Did I mention the red lyrium?  Shit's not just in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There is red lyrium showing up all over Fereldan and Orlais.  Shit. Somehow we've managed to unleash two of the worst terrors Thedas has seen in the last thousand years and the two have decided to combine into some twisted shit I'd rather not think about. Lucky for us, the Herald has managed to spoil Corypheus' plans for world domination up to this point. Not so lucky for us, he's pissed about the whole thing._

_I'll do what I can here to help set this right. I just wanted to let you know he's back.  Let's hope he has forgotten how we left him in a pool of his own blood, full of arrows, stab wounds and lightning strikes back in the Vimarks.  Still, you may want to share this with Broody.  Tell him to keep checking on the kids for me. I think it'll make the both of us feel better._

_Give Andra and Bethy a hug and kiss for me. Tell them their Uncle Varric misses them and that we'll play together in the gardens as soon as I get back._

_Stay safe, Hawke.  I'll let you know as soon as we've found this mythical lost fortress Solas says we'll find somewhere north of us._

_Varric_

*****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is still wandering, trying to find Skyhold. Aedmon, though healed, has been unable to truly reconnect with everyone else after his "miraculous" survival of Haven's destruction. In his frustration, he seeks out the one person he knows doesn't believe in his title as Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviating just a little from the timeline on the romance here. It felt more natural this way with how I've set these two up. Sorry in advance for the angst. Seems like, no matter how hard I tried to keep it to a minimum, it won't go away.

Aedmon left the healing tent he had been staying in the past week while they traveled as stealthily as he possibly could.  It was the same tent he had been in while he recovered.  There was no real privacy, and even though his fingers and toes were no longer black with cold, Mother Giselle was adamant that he remain in the healing tent for a few more days.  Just in case he still needed aid, she insisted. He knew better. That woman was still chasing off his visitors.  The only ones allowed inside the tent were the Council and the Revered Mother.

The Council was arguing again.  Of course, Mother Giselle had assured him that it would pass, that it was a normal byproduct of the tension everyone had experienced with the destruction of Haven and their subsequent journey into nowhere.  Maker he hoped Solas knew what he was talking about. Aedmon wasn't too sure how much longer any of them could keep this up, wandering through the snowy mountains in search of some long abandoned, mystical castle that may or may not exist. His Council's arguing didn't make him feel any better.  It was, in effect, his Council now.  Ever since his miraculous return from the not-quite-dead, everyone in camp seemed to be looking to him for guidance. 

He didn't want to be their prophet. 

He also really needed his own tent.  He had been fully recovered for days now, thanks to some rather spectacular healers they managed to pick up with the mages, and the Revered Mother's hen-like behavior was even more stifling than being the Herald of Andraste.  This had led him to where he was now, stalking from tent to tent, skirting the shadows through camp, looking for one very particular mage. Well, one particular mage's tent.

There it was. Aedmon could see Dorian standing just outside the front flaps of his tent, wishing Varric a good night. Of course, with Varric, it was a longer process than with most.  The dwarf seemed to be in on of his meddlesome moods. 

"Really, Sparkler," Trevelyan heard Varric say as he slipped behind the tent, hoping neither man would see him.  "You need to quit doing this.  Brooding alone in your tent at night.  You'll get wrinkles."

"Maker forbid that happens, Varric," the mage laughed.  Aedmon stifled a laugh as well, as he lifted the bottom edge of the back of Dorian's tent and slipped quietly inside before anyone could see him. Had he any thought other than trying to escape the confines of the healing tent, he might have realized how scandalous his actions truly looked. 

"And for your information," Dorian continued.  "I'm not brooding.  You seem to be one of the few that doesn't look at me sideways just for being from Tevinter.  I do not wish to wear out my welcome by chasing off all of your other friends every night. Besides, all this walking through the cold and snow, uphill, downhill, it's frightfully tiring. I simply wish to go to bed is all."

"And it has nothing to do with missing your other drinking companion?"

Aedmon stilled at the question.  He desperately wanted to hear the answer to that question.

"Stupid hen won't let me see him," Dorian replied.  Aedmon held back another laugh.  It sounded like the mage was pouting.  "She doesn't like me much, I'm afraid. Always has a reason why I can't be let in to the tent.  'He's resting.'"  His voice pitched higher as he imitated Mother Giselle's heavy Orlesian accent rather well. "'The Council was just here, give the boy some space.'  'The Herald is busy.'  It's rather pathetic how unoriginal her excuses are," the mage huffed. 

"She won't let me in, either, if that's any help," Varric added.

"A little."

"What we need is a good plan for breaking him out of there," Varric continued. "I know she says all the other tents are full, but you think they could find one for him. I mean the man did drop a mountain on his head to save the rest of us.  The least they could do is give him his own space."

"True," Dorian agreed.  "It is something to consider in the morning, as we do more wandering, walking through the cursed snow and freezing cold.  Good night, Varric."

"You sure, Sparkler…?"

"Yes. Good night."

Aedmon sat quietly in anticipation as he watched Dorian enter the tent, his eyes closed in weary resignation.  The mage truly looked tired.  Still, Trevelyan hoped for at least some conversation, and maybe a warm place to sleep away from Mother Giselle's constant overbearing presence.

*****

Dorian entered his tent with a weary sigh as he turned to close the flap, making sure there was as little draft as possible seeping through it, his thoughts heavy. Had it been a door to an actual room, he would have rested his head against it.  Though he was grateful to have his own space, no one wanted to bunk with the evil mage from Tevinter after all, he did miss his evenings with Aedmon.  Not that they had spent many together, or were doing anything other than drinking and telling stories, sharing each other's companionship and frustrations.  But he missed them just the same. 

What was wrong with him?  He couldn't believe himself.  Here he was, scion of House Pavus, playboy pariah and scandal of the family, pining like a schoolboy for someone he couldn't have.  He had left Tevinter for this very reason.  It didn't matter what he wanted.  It would never work out in his favor anyway.  Feelings didn't exist for people like him. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

Turning around, Dorian caught sight of Aedmon, silently sitting on his bedroll, and the most undignified squawk flew from his lips before he could catch it. Aedmon doubled over in laughter where he was sitting.

"Are you trying to frighten me to death?" he accused.

Aedmon continued to laugh, unable to catch enough of a breath to reply. 

"I'm sure you find this amusing," Dorian continued scolding.  "But what would your dear Revered Mother say to you sneaking into people's tents in the middle of the night like some errant lover?"

That got Aedmon's attention, the laughter stopping automatically, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Didn't think about that, did you?"

"Don't care, really," Aedmon shrugged.  "That woman…" his voice faded, unable to find any words to voice his frustrations.  Instead, he just growled, low and menacing. 

"Yes, well, she is only protecting the Inquisition's precious Herald of Andraste."

Aedmon gave him a scathing look. 

"How did you manage to escape?" Dorian asked as he finally got the nerve to sit down on the bedroll next to Aedmon.

"I had Solas distract her for me."

"What?" Dorian couldn't help but sound incredulous.

"I was desperate," Aedmon pouted.  "And I couldn't exactly ask Cullen or Cassandra to do it for me. Leliana might have helped, but that woman would read too much into things.  Then she would have me followed.  You can't exactly sneak through camp when you're being followed."

"True," Dorian agreed.  "Still. I may have to reevaluate my opinion of our picky elven apostate."

"So. Can I stay here tonight?" Aedmon pouted. 

"As much as I hate to say no, I'm not getting clucked at by that woman just so you can hide like a little child," Dorian replied.

"Says the man that ran away from home," Aedmon smirked.

It was Dorian's turn to glare at the man.

"Please don't make me go back there," Aedmon pled, giving him puppy eyes. Damn the man, Dorian thought. He had to look at him like that. This wasn't going to end well if he gave in to the rogue.

"I only have one bedroll."  It was a poor excuse, but he was getting desperate.

"I promise not to take up too much space."

"How does that work?  You're taller than I am by half a head."

"Yes," Aedmon purred playfully, suddenly switching tactics.  "And think of how warm you'll be with me sharing your blankets."

Dorian began to splutter, any and all speech deserting him.

"Or are you afraid I'll take advantage of a delicate Tevinter flower such as yourself?" Aedmon pressed, leaning in closer to Dorian.  When did the man close the gap that had been between them when he sat down, the mage wondered.

"It would hardly be taking advantage," Dorian replied before he could think better of it.

For a brief moment, Aedmon was still, surprise on his face.  "Really?" Aedmon finally replied, a spark of hope in his eyes.  Before the mage could react, Aedmon closed what little was left of the space between them, his lips caressing Dorian's with aching sweetness. 

The kiss was tentative at first, a simple, sweet mapping of each other's lips and mouth. It didn't take long, however, for that to change.  In moments, the tension between the two snapped.  Weeks of flirting, of being close but not touching, combined with multiple near death experiences, culminated in a delicious tension begging to be resolved. Aedmon shifted, his hand tracing up Dorian's arm and across his shoulder to come to rest, tangled in his hair, pulling the mage closer with a hunger for more.  Dorian moaned as the kiss became all together different from what it began as.  He had never been kissed like this.  Not with such passion, or abandon.  Aedmon's other arm came around to hold him tightly, as if he were precious and would slip away if given the chance. 

Moments later, Dorian felt himself being lifted, Aedmon's hands now around his waist, his knee shifting over Aedmon's legs as he was resettled across the man's lap. His arms came up, circling the rogue's shoulders as he had dreamt of so many nights, his fingers working their way into Aedmon's hair, tugging it loose from its braid, his deep brown locks tumbling free down his back. 

Aedmon growled, low in his throat as Dorian's fingers ran sinfully through his hair. In one swift motion, he rocked against the mage, shifting their weight on the bedroll, drawing attention to the growing need between the two as he lowered Dorian back onto the blankets. Gently he settled his weight atop the other, coming to rest between the mage's thighs. 

It was bliss. Dorian arched his back, gasping as he turned his neck a little more, baring it to Aedmon's searing mouth. A small moan escaped despite his struggle to hold it back as the rogue settled deeper into the cradle of his legs.  He had been right. Aedmon's hips were perfect. They fit together unlike anything he had felt before.  If he had never left Tevinter…

Dorian's thoughts came to a sudden, shuddering halt.  He froze in fear.  Despite everything, he could still hear his father's voice in the back of his mind. _Disgusting. You are no son of mine._

He opened his eyes to see Aedmon hovering over him, his hair cascading down around them both. It hurt to see the confusion in those beautiful blue eyes.  Despite what his heart was telling him, he pushed gently against the Herald's shoulders, and it tore at him when Aedmon allowed it, sitting back on his knees, the pain of rejection clear on the rogue's face.

"This isn't a good idea," Dorian said softly as he, too, pulled away from Aedmon and sat up.  "I'm sorry."

"Why?" It was one word, but it spoke volumes, the accusation clear in Aedmon's voice.

Dorian shook his head, unable to answer past the lump in his throat.  He knew his limitations.  That he was incapable of loving or being loved. Because of that, there was no hope for anything between the two of them.  Yet he couldn't voice the words.  The pain was too deep, mixed with fear too far ingrained in his heart to share. Instead he did the one thing he knew to be unforgivable between the two of them knowing it would drive the other man away. 

"Herald," he began, surprised at how steady his voice came out.

Aedmon's eyes grew cold, their blue becoming ice.  Dorian shrank at the rage he saw, at the pain and rejection burning along side it.  Not another word was said as the Herald stood and, raising a wall of silence between them, left through the front of Dorian's tent and out into the cold of night.

*****

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedmon is still looking for a place to sleep while dealing with what happened in Dorian's tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief, but needed to finish up the current situation before moving in to the next.

Varric watched from his fire as Aedmon appeared, storming from Dorian's tent, curious as to how, and when, the Herald had turned up in their end of the camp.  And how did he find his way into Dorian's tent without him noticing?  From the look in Trevelyan's eyes, it hadn't gone well.  He had never seen the man so angry, or so hurt. Even more curious was the fact that Aedmon's hair was unbound, falling in gentle waves down his back. Trevelyan never wore his hair down.

"What did you do, Sparkler?" he whispered into the cold.

Instead of checking on the mage, he watched, his storyteller's eye looking for details, clues in Aedmon's behavior to help fill in some of the gaps before broaching what he knew would be an extremely sensitive topic with either man.  He'd noticed over the past few weeks how both men seemed to gravitate towards each other, though he wasn't so sure either had noticed. Then again, tonight's performance said that at least one had, and finally had the courage to act on it. But what had happened to create such a spectacular exit on Trevelyan's part?  So he watched, and waited.

*****

Aedmon stalked through the snow, not caring anymore who saw him.  He had no real destination in mind as long as he didn't go back to the healing tent.  He was done with that place.  Though if he went back he knew he could count on Mother Giselle to keep unwanted visitors away.

Growling in frustration, he ran his hands through his hair.  It was still free of its braid, and he could still feel Dorian's fingers, the phantom of their caress as they had worked their way through his locks. He had been so sure. Everything he had seen, had heard, led him to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, Dorian had wanted there to be something else, something more, between them.  So when Dorian had said there would be no taking advantage, he took the chance. 

He had never been so wrong.

Or was he? Dorian responded to his touch. Blissfully so. The mage had even kissed him back. He had felt the other's need so clearly.  What had happened? Did he do something wrong?

"Fear. Choking.  Frightened.  Unlovable. Memory of voices raised in anger. You're disgusting. A father's disdain. No son of mine," a faint voice drifted to him.  He turned to see Cole, the strange young man they had picked up before the Corypheus attacked Haven. 

"What?"

"He's afraid," the boy replied. 

Aedmon looked at the boy, still unsure of what they were discussing. 

"He's hurt. You scare him, but he can't say it.  It makes the hurt more real to say it.  I want to help. But the hurt is too deep. If I make him forget, it would change him.  Make him what he is not. It would make me like his father." Cole's eyes were downcast, examining the snow at his feet. 

"Are you talking about Dorian?"

The boy nodded. "He doesn't want to hurt you. But he doesn't think he can be what you want.  What you need. Too much pain inside. You are too important. To the people. To the world.  He is nothing.  No one.  Being with you would only hurt you, hurt him.  It always ends in pain."

Aedmon could only stare at the boy, his mind in confusion, tying to sift through the cryptic information.  What he could figure out, however, was that what he had been told was rather intimate.

"How do you know this?"

"I can hear the hurt.  I can hear yours, too. You want to know why he pushed you away.  If you did something wrong.  You want to yell at him.  To hit, to hurt something, someone.  So you hold it all inside.  It's tight, like shoes that are too small.  A title that you never wanted.  A hole where your sister was.  Another where your faith died with her."

"Who are you?" Trevelyan growled, quickly losing his hold on his anger. "How do you know that? No one here knows that."

"I'm Cole," the boy answered innocently, taking a step back.  "And I told you.  I can hear your pain.  It's loud now that everyone else is asleep." 

"Cole," another voice joined in the conversation.  Aedmon turned to see Solas walking up to them.  "Herald.  I hope he isn't bothering you," he continued.

"I'm not sure," the Aedmon replied truthfully, still trying to reign in his anger and discomfort. 

"Cole, we have discussed this.  Many are uncomfortable with you reading them in such a manner.  Most do not wish to have their inner hurts voiced aloud."

"I was only trying to help," the boy shrunk in on himself.

"I know," the elf said sympathetically.  "I'm sorry, Herald," Solas added.  "Cole is a spirit of Compassion.  Somehow he has managed to find himself stranded on this side of the Fade.  He means no harm, but he has problems interacting with people.  Especially when they suffer from some form of emotional hurt."

Aedmon nodded.

"I trust he hasn't troubled you too much," Solas inquired.

"No," he answered. 

"Good," Solas turned to Cole and began to usher him away.  "Good night, Herald."

Aedmon wasn't sure how long he stood there, at the edge of the camp, thinking over Cole's words. Except for the part where the boy spoke about his sister and his faith, none of what he said really made sense. Why would Dorian be afraid?

With a heavy sigh, Aedmon gave up, turning to head back into the camp.  He would figure it out in the morning. Right now, he needed to find somewhere to sleep.

*****

"Sera?" Trevelyan called softly into her tent.  "Sera, are you awake?"

"I bloody well am now?  What are you doing here at my tent?" the girl demanded, throwing open the flap to her tent to glare sleepily at Aedmon. 

"I need a place to sleep."

"No," she replied firmly, shaking her head.  "No way I would share my bed with a man."

"Which is exactly why they won't look for me here," he begged.  "Please.  I just need someplace to hide from that woman."

"What woman?" Sera giggled, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Mother Giselle," Trevelyan growled.

"Ah…" the elf nodded her head in commiseration.  "Crazy bird won't let anyone in to see you.  We've all tried.  Not like we want to take up all your time.  Just want to make sure you're doing all right.  She only lets those four in," she pointed in the general direction of where the Council's tents were located. "Still…" the mischief was back.  "Why not go hit Dorian up for a place to sleep?  Every one knows he's sweet on you," she nodded her head in the direction of Dorian's tent.  "Maybe you can get more than sleep, if you know what I mean."  She winked conspiratorially at him.

"Never mind…" Aedmon growled, turning to stalk off, away from Sera.

"What did I say?"

*****

Aedmon stalked away from Sera's tent, contemplating who might be able to put him up for the night.

Bull was out of the question.  After fighting with Dorian, if you wanted to even call it that, it would look bad for him to take up space in Bull's tent.  Cole was sharing with Solas.  That would be an evening of more discomfort and cryptic conversations he wasn't willing to have.  That left…

"You know, if you need a place to bunk for the night, I've got room," Varric said as the dwarf appeared out of nowhere. 

"Bianca won't get jealous?" Trevelyan said warily, trying to find humor in his situation.

"Nah," the dwarf shook his head.  "She knows where my heart lies.  And yours."

Aedmon opened his mouth to decline the offer but before he could, Varric continued. "I'm not going to ask. I know something happened, but right now, you look more like you need a warm place to sleep without Chantry involvement, if you know what I mean.  You wouldn't be the first person I've hidden from random clerics, so come on."

With that, Varric wandered off towards his tent, leaving it to Trevelyan to decide whether or not to follow.  With a sigh, Aedmon followed the dwarf, praying that he wouldn't end up in one of Varric's stories.  Something he had said, about hiding people from the Chantry, stuck with him.  Eventually he would have to ask.  Right now, however, he was to tired, to emotionally drained to care. 

*****

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has finally reached Skyhold. Aedmon and Dorian still are avoiding each other, and Varric comes clean about his previous encounter with Corypheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought Blackwall was a bit off in how he was written into the plot. I mean, seriously? How did Liliana miss that? And why, if Wardens can sense the taint does Stroud/Alistair/Loghain NOT notice that he's not a Warden? So... to sate my personal issues with this (which was not enough to really complain about re the game) I have included some tweaking to the game cannon.

Aedmon stood among the wreckage of boards, shingles and beams that had fallen from the ceiling of the main hall at Skyhold, looking up at the massive stained-glass windows. Their riot of color brought him some modicum of relief to his troubling thoughts.  What troubled him most, however, was that Dorian was avoiding him.  No matter how he tried, the mage always managed to either be somewhere else, or have somewhere to go whenever Aedmon approached him.  It didn't help that he was avoiding the mage as well. Besides, there was always something for him to be doing.  Things were moving far to fast to keep up with.  He was the Inquisitor, now.  One more title had been added to the growing list of titles he never wanted. 

He didn't even know where to begin.  At least his enemy now had a name.

But who or what was he. The creature claimed to be an ancient Tevinter magister, one of the number that cracked the Golden City, defiling the Maker's seat and turning the Golden City black.  If he were to be believed, the monster was one of the few actually responsible for the Blight.  And he wanted Aedmon's head as well as his hand.

"Inquisitor?" a voice behind him called his attention.

Aedmon turned to see Varric approaching from just below the dais.  "It's Aedmon, Varric," he said warily. "Please.  I have too many calling me Inquisitor, or Herald," he spat the title out in disgust.  "I don't need it from you, too.  Not with as much as we've gone through with all this shit."

"Sure, your Inquisitorialness," the dwarf replied with a smile.

Aedmon gave a small laugh, then frowned, noticing how briefly the smile lasted on the usually jovial dwarf's face.  "What can I do for you, Varric?  You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Well, see, that's just it," Varric answered.  "I have.  Do you think we can have a conversation?  With Curly and Ruffles and Nightingale?  They might all want to hear what I have to say."

"Sure, Varric," Aedmon replied before calling out to a runner, asking for her to gather his Council in the War Room immediately.  He didn't know what it was that Varric had to say, but it was obviously important enough to have the dwarf rattled. 

It didn't take long for the advisors to gather in the War Room.  Once all assembled, they looked towards Aedmon, curious as to why the call for the sudden meeting.

"Varric has some information he believes we need to hear," he said once everyone had arrived.

"First, let me say that I would have said something sooner, but we've had our hands full, what with finding this place and then with making it livable.  Now that that's done, I think you should know, I've sort of met Corypheus before."

The room erupted into shouts and confusion, with the exception of Leliana.  Varric stood where he was, to the side of the table, silently trying to field questions that barraged him from every direction, trying not to wilt under the spymaster's knowing gaze. In moments, an uncomfortable silence descended on the room.

"Actually, it's more like I've helped kill him once already," Varric continued once he had the room's attention again.  "It's a bit of a long story, so I'll try to keep to the important details." Everyone in the room nodded. "You see, several years ago, a crazed Carta clan sent out several attacks on both Hawke and her brother, claiming to need their blood for some weird, unintelligible reason. We had absolutely no idea why, so, using what connections I possibly could, I tracked them back to an abandoned Warden prison deep in the Vimark Mountains."

"An abandoned Warden prison?" Leliana interrupted.

"I know what you're thinking," Varric answered.  "It can't be a coincidence what with the Wardens being missing from both Orlais and Ferelden."  Leliana nodded in agreement.  "I agree," Varric continued.  "Not only was this prison in the middle of nowhere, but it was also the most the most elaborate I have seen.  Four different levels of seals, all magically bound with blood magic."

"Blood magic?"  It was Cullen's turn to interrupt, the very thought of blood magic setting him on edge.

Varric nodded. "It was to keep what ever was inside from getting out.  Problem was, that while we were investigating this rogue Carta clan, we, Hawke, a few others and I, crossed the first one of the barriers, effectively trapping us inside.  The only way out was for us to go through what ever was kept at the center of the prison."

"And that was Corypheus?" Leliana asked, putting the pieces of the story together with what information they already had.

"Yes," the dwarf replied.  "It seems he managed to somehow convince this Carta clan to drink darkspawn blood, allowing him to control their minds.  He sent them out after the Hawkes.  Their father had been the last to reinforce the seals.  It was his blood, or the blood of one of his descendants, that was needed to break Corypheus out of his prison."

"And that's exactly what you did! Isn't it, Varric?" Cullen accused.

"Now, now, Curly. It wasn't exactly like that, and you know it.  You know Hawke's luck.  The only other person in all of Thedas that I have met with equal or worse bad luck is the Inquisitor, here."

"Hey!" Aedmon cried out, offended.

"True," Cullen agreed, a wry smirk on his face.

Varric shrugged his shoulders unapologetically in Aedmon's direction.  "We were already past the first barrier, and on our way towards the first seal when we discovered the truth.  There was this Warden, half-crazy bastard who had been left in the Deep Roads too long named Larius.  Between him and a few journals we managed to scavenge from the place, we discovered the truth about the prison.  It was holding a powerful, talking darkspawn at its heart. The Wardens, for one reason or another, had found it necessary to imprison it instead of killing it. Now that I've seen Corypheus again, I think it may be because they _couldn't_ kill him," his voice faded in frustration.  "Well.  To make a long story short, four seals later, we were in the middle of a pitched battle with this monster that claimed to be one of the ancient Tevinter Magisters that cracked the Golden City and started the Blight.  Took forever to kill him, too."

"But he's not dead," Aedmon said.

"Are you sure he was dead, Varric?" Cullen asked.

"You've seen Hawke's work, Curly.  When has she _not_ been thorough in killing something? Especially something that threatened her or her family?" 

Cullen ran his hand through his hair, growling as he rubbed the back of his neck in frustration he was sure the rest of the room felt.  It was true, though.  Hawke was, if anything, thorough when destroying something, and Maker help whoever threatened her family.

"He was dead. Full of stab wounds and lightning strikes.  Hell. I think Fenris took his heart just for good measure at the time.  Bastard threatened to collar him and take him back to Tevinter when he was through with the rest of us.  You know how Broody reacts to just the thought of a Tevinter Magister or slaver."

"He wouldn't take that well," Cullen agreed.

"Exactly. I tell you, the man was dead."

There was silence in the room, heavy and uncomfortable as the realization that Corypheus may be a bit harder to kill than they originally believed.

"So how does one go about killing a possibly immortal, ancient Tevinter magister?" Aedmon asked attempting to be light hearted but falling short. "There has to be a way," he continued.  "Even Archdemons fall to the Grey Wardens.  They know everything there is about the Blight.  Would Blackwall be able to help with that?"

"I am beginning to suspect his claims to being a Grey Warden," Leliana answered. "He knows far too little about the Order for someone who has supposedly gone through the Joining."

Both Aedmon and Cullen looked surprised to hear that.  "On what grounds do you make that assumption?" Cullen asked.

"It is amazing how quickly it takes for people to forget heroic deeds," she answered with a laugh, looking Trevelyan in the eye.  "Just over a decade ago, I helped the Hero of Ferelden defeat the last Archdemon and end the fifth Blight.  Her name is remembered because it was she that dealt the killing blow.  It was her life that was lost in Ferelden's salvation.  She told me, the night before we advanced on Denerim, that it was unavoidable. That it could be none other than a Grey Warden that could slay an Archdemon and that the price for that was the Warden's very life.  It is the only way to kill an Old God.  Blackwall knows none of this.  He also claims to have been in Ferelden during the Blight, when everyone here in this room knows their history.  The entirety of the Ferelden Wardens were all at Ostagar, and their numbers were limited due to their previous exile from the country some generations before."

"Should we trust him?" Aedmon asked.

"As long as he makes himself useful, I don't see why not.  I have my agents watching him closely.  Aside from this one lie, as great as it is, he does not appear to be a spy of any sort.  He is truthful in his motives.  He wants to help.  He is also plagued by something in his past so terrible that he has assumed the mantle of Warden and I honestly believe he is trying to live up to those ideals as a form of atonement."

"We don't need him," Varric added.  "Not as a Warden, anyway.  Hawke has been working with one closely over the past few years. She thinks he can help us."

"Why would Hawke be in contact with the Wardens?" Cullen asked.

"After what happened in Kirkwall with Meredith, we've been trying to find out all we can about red lyrium.  It came from the Deep Roads, so we figured who better to help than a Warden."

"And who might this Warden be?" Leliana asked.

"Someone you know quite well, I'd say," Varric answered.

"So that's where he's been," she sighed in relief.

"Sorry, Nightingale," Varric apologized sincerely.  "If I'd have know you were looking for him, I would have brought this up sooner."

"How do we get in contact with this Warden of yours?" Aedmon asked. "Can Hawke pass him a message for us, or something?"

"That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about," Varric sighed.  "I can't get in contact with her at the moment. The last letter she sent me said she was on her way here."

"But she's…" Cullen began.

"Seven or eight months pregnant?" Varric finished dryly.  "I know.  But you know Hawke.  Once she gets something into her head…" he shook his head in resignation.

"That woman is a force of nature," Cullen groaned. 

"I'll second that," Varric agreed.  "And one more thing.  She's bringing the entire brood with her.  So you might want to warn certain members of the party. You know?  Give them a little heads up so they don't accidentally trigger any specific incidents.  I'd hate for Sparkler to wind up with his insides on the outside because he happened to say the wrong thing to Fenris.  Though I will say, Broody has gotten better about things."

"Still, we don't want to take any unnecessary chances," Cullen groaned.

"Who is this Fenris?" Aedmon asked with concern.

"Hawke's husband," Varric replied.  "Or he would be if the Chantry allowed for human/elf marriages.  He has a particular dislike of Tevinter mages. Not without cause, mind you. And that doesn't really excuse anything, should he take a dislike to Dorian without getting to know him first. But you do have to admit, our resident Tevinter pariah does have a way of saying things to get under people's skin."

"I'll talk to him," Cullen said.  "When do you think they'll arrive?"

"Sometime within the week, if the letter she last sent is any indication as to when they left Kirkwall."

"We'll have some rooms ready for them."

"Good," Varric nodded.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see our resident, not-a-Warden-slash-carpenter about a last minute gift."

*****


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and family arrive at Skyhold.

Three days later, Cullen found Dorian in the small alcove he had claimed as his in the library the moment they were able to access the room.  He had been avoiding this conversation, unpleasant as he knew it would be.  But he was running out of time.  Varric said that Hawke and her family would be arriving at Skyhold sometime soon. Maker only knew when, but all the other preparations had been made for their arrival.  A set of rooms had been cleaned and furnished for the family to live in during their stay, however long that may be. As to be expected, Dorian had not taken the news of Hawke's partner's prejudices well.

"What you're telling me is that by virtue of my country of birth, this man insists on judging me before we can even meet?" Dorian asked in outrage.

"He has not had pleasant dealings with others of your countrymen," Cullen said, trying to diffuse the situation before it grew any more uncomfortable.  He hated making excuses for Fenris, but he knew the elf's volatile personality well.  He'd seen the evidence of his anger many times back in Kirkwall.

"More like he was enslaved and brutalized," Varric said as he rounded the curve from the stairs.  "But it's Broody's story to tell, not mine.  I got this, Curly," he said as he came to a stop beside the two of them. "Hawke and family just arrived in the courtyard.  I'll be there in a minute."

Cullen nodded, trying to decide if there was anything he could possibly say before he left. Knowing there wasn't, words were never his strong point to begin with, he simply made his goodbyes and headed out to the courtyard to greet Hawke and the others. 

"Are you here to tell me to stay away from your friend, as well?" Dorian asked.

"No," Varric replied.  "I actually think it would do Broody some good to see that not every Tevinter mage is an asshole.  Just go slow with him. He's a little touchy about some things."

"Fine," Dorian huffed dramatically.  "I'll stay out of the way."

Varric felt the need to apologize.  He knew Dorian didn't deserve this.  As much as he was loathe to make excuses for Fenris, he knew that in the end, if he could broach the subject of Dorian with the elf first, things may go a little smoother for everyone.

"Thanks," he replied apologetically before he turned to leave.  "I'll make sure to have the same talk with him. Let him know you were here first, and that the Inquisition needs you."

"I'm not so sure," Dorian mumbled to himself as he watched Varric disappear down the steps. He still hadn't patched things up with Aedmon, and he wasn't sure just how long the Inquisitor would suffer his ignoring the man.

*****

Aedmon entered the courtyard to see strangest party of people he had yet to come across in his time with the Inquisition.  There was one woman, heavily pregnant, and two elves, one female with a bow on her back and the other male with possibly the largest broadsword he had seen. What was so incongruous about the group, however, were the children.  One, a girl of about six or seven, was looking about with wide, curious eyes, the elven woman with the bow trying to chase her down and keep her in one place.  The other child, a girl of maybe three, sat on the other elf's hip, a stark contrast to his black armor and heavy sword.

"Andra," the elf called out, his voice surprisingly deeper than most elves. "Come here. You'll miss Uncle Varric when he shows up if you can't behave."

"Yes, papa," the girl replied as she wandered back over to stand with her father. It only added to the strangeness when she reached up and took his gauntleted hand in hers. 

"Viscount Hawke?" Aedmon asked, holding out his hand in greeting to the pregnant woman. Based off Varric's description, he was hoping it was her. 

"Just Hawke, please," the woman replied.  "Or Ygraine, if you don't mind being a little less formal. I rather hate titles," she said with a wry smile. 

Aedmon laughed in response.  "It's Aedmon," he said.  "And I completely understand."

"This is Fenris," Hawke gestured to the elven warrior.  "The two little terrors hanging off him are Andra, our eldest, and Bethy.  Orana has been with us for so long, she's family as well.  She refused to be left in Kirkwall.  Said we needed help with the children."

"You can't watch over these two as well in your condition," Orana said shyly. "And I couldn't leave you to a strange midwife, mistress."

"Well, shall we move this inside?" Aedmon asked.  "I'm sure you would like to sit down somewhere comfortable, Hawke."

"Where's Varric?" she asked.

"He had some last minute business to take care of," Cullen said as he came down the stairs into the courtyard.  "He'll be here in just a moment."

Hawke nodded. "Shall we, then?" she gestured to the stairs. 

Aedmon extended his arm to Hawke as they began their ascent into the main hall. 

"Giggles!" they all heard Varric shout as they entered the doors to the hall.

"Uncle Varric!" Andra called out in reply as she tore away from Fenris and raced the rest of the way into the building. 

It stunned almost everyone of the Inquisition as they watched Varric scoop Andra up into his arms and spin her around, both laughing.  "Oh I have missed you, Giggles," Varric said as he put Andra back down on her feet.

"Can we go play in the garden like you promised in mama's letter?" the girl asked happily.

"I can't at the moment," he said sadly.  "I need to talk with your mama and papa, first."

"Aw," Andra pouted.

"But I promise I will join you as soon as I can."

"Okay."

"Orana, do you think you can take the girls out into the garden while Fenris and I speak with the Inquisitor?" Hawke asked.

"Of course," the elven woman replied.  "Where is the garden?"

"I'll show you," Cullen said.  "I can meet you in Josephine's office in a moment," he said to Hawke and the Inquisitor. 

"It's so good to see you again, Ser Cullen," the elven woman said as he escorted her and the two children through the door to the garden. 

*****

It took a little while for everyone to be assembled in Josephine's office, Hawke settled comfortably in a chair before the fire.  Josephine, upon seeing Hawke's condition insisted on food and drink being brought in to forgive the insult of not allowing their guests to rest before meeting with the Council.

Once everyone was settled, and Josephine's insecurities about having insulted their guests assuaged, Cullen finally approached the topic of Corypheus. "Can you tell us what you know about Corypheus, Hawke?"

"Are we even sure it's Corypheus?" Fenris asked.

"Yes," Varric answered.  "I saw him, myself.  There's no doubt. It's him.  Don't know how, but it's him."

Hawke sighed. "Pease tell me, how is he even alive?"

"We don't know. We were hoping you could give us some insight into his nature since you've dealt with him once already," Cullen said.

"That's putting it mildly," Hawke scoffed.  "He was dead, Cullen.  Bastard came after Carver and I.  Andra was still an infant when his crazed Carta broke into our house intent on killing me and mine.  So I put him down," she growled, her eyes flashing in anger. "You know I don't play games when it comes to protecting family."

"I never said you did," Cullen said unapologetically.  "Just as I do not doubt the fact that you honestly believe he was dead.  But somehow, he isn't now.  That's a problem no matter which way you look at it.  So let's start with this prison, and this Warden that helped you. Who all was with you? Varric said it was you, him and Fenris.  Did anyone else go with you?"

"Varric didn't say?"

"No."

"Well, Carver, of course, but he's back in Kirkwall keeping things together while we're gone," she hesitated.  "And Anders."

"Anders?" Cullen questioned, the subject of the possessed mage still a touchy subject for him.

Hawke nodded. "He had problems during the expedition," she said.

"Justice?" the Commander growled.

"No," Hawke shook her head.  "Justice wasn't so much the problem.  You see, Corypheus could somehow control those with the taint.  We almost lost him then."

"Wait," Leliana interrupted.  "Corypheus could control tainted beings?"

Hawke nodded again. "Which is why I think our first priority should be to meet with Alistair.  He's holed up in Crestwood at the moment.  Something has gone wrong in the upper ranks of the Wardens, and they are currently hunting him.  So much for helping the Hero of Fereldan save the world from the last Blight, huh?"

"Will he speak with us?" Aedmon asked.  "You're hardly in any condition to be running around finding rogue Wardens."

"He knows me. I can take you to him," Fenris answered.  "But in return, you will take care of my family."

"Fenris," Hawke growled.

"No, Raine," Fenris said firmly.  "I will not waver on this.  If this is, in fact, Corypheus, there is still a chance that he will remember what we did. I will not chance losing you, or the girls.  So please," his eyes turned tender, pleading.  "I need to know you are safe."

"I am not some wilting flower, Fenris." 

"Of that I'm sure," Fenris laughed.  "But you are so close to your time."  He gently ran his hand across her belly, smiling as the infant inside playfully knocked his hand.

Hawke sighed. "Fine," she said wearily.  "You win. This time," she stipulated with a glare. 

"Thank you," the elf replied, bending to kiss her forehead.  He looked over to Trevelyan who nodded in agreement.

"We'll keep them safe," Cullen promised. 

Fenris nodded in response.

*****

Dorian sat in the chair occupying the alcove he had chosen for himself in Skyhold's fledgling library.  If anyone asked, he would deny sulking.  A Pavus did not sulk.  Nor was he brooding.

No, he was simply thinking.  The earlier conversation with Cullen and Varric still stung.  But what hurt more was that, once again, he was forced to reevaluate the practices and traditions of his native country.  He never really questioned the practice of slavery in Tevinter.  It just was. There was nothing he could do about it.  He had tried once, but it had ended so badly he never dared try again.  So here he sat, definitely not pouting, in a corner of the library, pretending to read a book instead of facing the truth, that just down the stairs, somewhere else in the castle was another victim of his country's prejudice. 

"What kind of books do you have here?" a curious, small voice asked from near his elbow, interrupting his thoughts. 

*****

Hawke glared at Fenris, unhappy with his insistence that she and the girls remain at Skyhold until the Corypheus was taken care of.  The Inquisitor looked as if he had something else he wished to discuss, or somewhere else to be, though for some reason he was having trouble bringing the topic to light. Raine was about to ask when the door to Josephine's office opened, an somewhat frustrated Orana coming through the door with a tired Bethy on her hip.

"Forgive me for interrupting," she said.  "I was going to ask about our rooms for the night, Bethy needs to be put to bed, and I noticed Andra had wandered off.  She said she wanted to look at the flowers in the garden.  I turned my back for only a minute."

Hawke shook her head, chuckling softly.  "That girl," she sighed.  "It's okay, Orana.  It was only a matter of time before she did this.  She can't have gone far."  With the help of Fenris, she stood from her chair.

"Maybe you should go with Bethy to our rooms," Fenris suggested.  "I can look for her."

"And miss this chance to watch you fail at scolding her for running off?" she laughed. "I think not."

"I do not..."

"Yes, love," Hawke smiled, interrupting him, mischief in her eyes.  "You do.  You have never been able to tell her no."

Fenris opened his mouth to argue but Varric couldn’t resist saying his own bit.  "Even I can see that much, Broody," he laughed. "That girl has had you wrapped around her little finger since before she was born.  Not even Hawke has as much influence over you as your daughter does."

With a growl, Fenris turned on his heel and stalked out of the office in search of his errant daughter.

They didn't have to go far in search of Andra.  As the small party entered the main hall Fenris stopped, bringing the rest of the group up short.  There, exiting the passage to the library, was Dorian, Andra on his hip, her arms wrapped around the Tevinter mage like they were long lost friends and the beginnings of a slight bruise blooming on the side of her forehead.

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be a little slow after this. I only have one more chapter written. What few bits I have of the rest are finding it difficult to work their way into the story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Fenris meet at Skyhold, and Andra is absolutely adorable, precocious, but adorable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting longer than I thought it would be. Honestly, I'm not sure how long this will take. Thank you all for sticking with me this far.

"What kind of books do you have here?"

Dorian looked down at the small voice that suddenly appeared by his elbow to be met with a pair of striking green eyes.  "When did we start collecting urchins?" he mumbled in disbelief.

"That's not a nice word," the child pouted. 

"And what word would that be?" Dorian quipped.  He didn't exactly dislike children.  However he was not fond of them either.  They were messy, nosy, and obnoxious. That he would never have one of his own did nothing to help endear them to him, nor did it give him reason to care one way or the other. 

"Urchin," she replied.  "That's not a nice word."

"Do you even know what that word means?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it isn't a nice word?"

"Senshell Bran calls me that when he thinks I can't hear him," she answered. "He doesn't like me much."

"Hmmm…" Dorian hummed, his mind translating the child's mispronounced word. "Am I to guess this is normally after this Bran fellow has chased you out of his office where you don't belong?"

"Maybe…"

Dorian laughs. He never was one for children, but the mischief that shone in this one's eyes intrigued him.  As did her ears.  She was dressed nicely, as would be a noble's daughter, and she held herself in a way that was graceful even for one her age despite the hint of a bruise growing on her forehead.  He suspected some of that grace was due to her heritage.  Her ears had a slight, graceful point as if she were part elf.  Her being well spoken, and her curiosity about the books in the library also spoke well of her parents. 

"Where are your parents?" he asked, the sudden realization that he wouldn't like the answer beginning to form a small ball of worry in his belly.

"They had to talk with the… the Qu… the Quisi…" she frowned, her brow pulling together in frustration as she tried to wrap her mouth around the unfamiliar word.

"The Inquisitor?" he asked, the tiny ball of worry turning to a tremor of apprehension when the little girl nodded.  There was only one person he knew of that was here to meet with the Inquisitor, and that was Hawke.  "Is your mother Hawke?"

The girl nodded, her eyes lighting up.  Dorian sighed. That meant that her father was the very elf he was supposed to be avoiding at the moment. 

"Does she know where you are?"

His heart dropped a little further when the girl looked down at the floor, avoiding his gaze. "Of course not," he murmured.  The Maker must really hate him.  "Well, as much as I am amused by this little chat of ours," he stood up from his chair, and gestured towards the stairs, "we really should get you back to your parents before they miss you."

"But the books…"

"They will still be here.  Ask your mother to bring you back."

"I guess," she pouted.

Dorian headed towards the stairs that led to the main hall, pausing after a few steps when he realized that the child was no longer following him.  Turning, he saw her standing at the top step, frowning.

"What's wrong?" he asked impatiently.

"I tripped on the way up," she replied. 

That, at least, explained the bruise on her forehead, he thought.  "Yes?" he asked, trying to decipher what she was trying to imply.  Then she raised her arms silently in askance, requesting that he pick her up and carry her down the stairs.  Now he was sure the Maker hated him.  Sighing in exasperation, he reached out, lifting the girl into his arms.  "I don't know why I am indulging you," he said as he began to descend the stairs with her.  "I am not a nice man, and I don't like children. I am also quite sure you are perfectly capable of descending these stairs on your own."

"Yes," she said softly as she wrapped her arms around his neck.  "But you looked so lonely in your chair. Like you needed a hug."

That brought Dorian to a sudden halt.  Had he been that obvious that even a child noticed his mood?  "Cole is going to love you," he said in reply, a slight smirk on his lips.  If any one were to ask, he would deny the comfort he felt at her words, and he would definitely deny hugging the girl back.

*****

Dorian stared at the group that suddenly filed out of Josephine's office. 

"Fenris," Dorian said softly in disbelief.  He could not believe his eyes.  It had been over a decade since he last saw the elf, miserable and glaring daggers at him for being abandoned on the shore of Seheron. 

"Papa!" the girl he was carrying chimed from where she sat on his hip.

Tentatively he took the last few steps forward.  "Fenris," he said a little louder, more confidently.

Fenris' eyes narrowed when he saw the Tevinter carrying his daughter as he cautiously walked forward. Quickly, without hesitation, the elf stalked towards Dorian. 

"Pavus," he said gruffly.

The crowd tensed. Hands twitched towards swords and staves.  Varric cursed, drawing Bianca to his hip, just in case. 

"It's Dorian," the mage corrected as he set Andra down on her feet between them. "You're a free man now if what I hear of Danarius is true."

In a sudden movement that stunned everyone, even Dorian, Fenris closed the gap between the two, wrapping the mage in his arms, holding him tight in a grateful embrace.

"So this is where you found yourself," Dorian said as Fenris released him and held him at arms length.  Fenris nodded. The rest of crowd looked on, still full of confusion.  "The children?" he indicated Bethy where she still curled sleepily into Orana's side and Andra standing next to them.  "They are yours?" 

"Let me introduce you," Fenris said proudly, stepping to the side, his hand on Dorian's elbow as he led him forward and towards his family.

"Uh… Broody," Varric broke the thick, confused silence that hung in stiffly in the air. "Care to tell me why you're hugging the evil Tevinter mage instead of ripping his heart out?"

"Don't encourage him, Varric," Hawke answered with as much confusion as the dwarf.

Fenris ignored Varric. Instead, he brought Dorian to a halt before Ygraine.  "Raine, this is Dorian Pavus, of Tevinter," he said as he began making the introductions.  "Dorian, this is Ygraine Hawke, the woman who helped me defeat Danarius and the mother of my children, Andra and Bethy."  He gestured to each daughter respectively.

"It's a pleasure, my lady," Dorian bowed slightly, bringing Hawke's hand to his lips for a courtly kiss.  "And though I'm sure everyone is rather curious, I'm positive that this is a conversation that would be best with you in a comfortable chair.  You'll have to forgive my companions," he couldn't help but look over to Aedmon with mischief in his eyes, "but these southern barbarians hardly know courtly manners.  May I offer you a place to put your feet up, a warm fire, and a glass of wine?"  He offered his most charming smile along with his elbow to escort her from the main hall.

Hawke glanced towards Fenris who only stood there, a smirk on his lips, waiting to see her reply. It was a challenge, then. She knew enough to deem Dorian harmless.  If Fenris knew this strange man was a mage from Tevinter, and was not only allowing him within arms reach of her and their children without relieving him of his heart, but introducing him to her, then she would play whatever game it was that Fenris was hinting at. 

"That sounds most delightful," Raine replied, her voice lilting to match Dorian's playfulness.  "Though I object to being called a southern barbarian," she said as she looped her arm through Dorian's, allowing him to escort her towards doors of the main hall.

"Apologies, my lady," Dorian purred.  "I would never suggest someone as lovely as yourself were anything of the sort."

"True," Hawke said as she allowed the mage to escort her from the hall.  "Sadly I must decline your offer of wine, obviously," she continued, gesturing to her belly. "But I am craving mulled cider.  Do you think we might be able to find some?"

"I'm sure we can come up with something," Dorian answered with a smile as he led her from the hall.  "Will you join us, Fenris?" he asked before they crossed the hall's threshold.

"I will put the girls to bed, first," Fenris replied.  "I'll meet you in a few moments."

"Very well," Dorian said, turning with Hawke and heading towards the tavern.

*****

"You told me he had problems with Tevinter mages," Aedmon said firmly despite his confusion as he watched Hawke and Fenris leave in separate directions.

"Varric?" Cullen asked, his voice small and confused.

"Don't ask me, Curly," the dwarf shrugged.  "I'm just as confused as you are.  Either Broody is planning on killing Sparkler in his sleep, or there is a story there that none of us know," he answered, putting Bianca back where she belonged.  "I've never, in all my years knowing him, seen Fenris willingly embrace a mage on sight like that.  Especially one from Tevinter.  Hell, it took over a year just to get him to not growl at Hawke after they first met."

"Then I say we join them," Cullen said with small shake of his head and a smirk. "Just in case."

*****

Fenris looked over Andra's forehead, his fingers gently brushing her hair away from her bruise as he tucked her into bed.  "What did you do to your head?"

"I tripped on the stairs," she said meekly.

"How many times have I told you not to run on the stairs, little one?" he asked, a fond annoyance in his voice.

"Can mama fix it?" 

"No," he answered her firmly.  "I think we need to leave this as a lesson.  Maybe you'll think twice about running on the stairs in the future."

"Yes, papa."

"Good-night, my little miracle," he whispered as he gently kissed the top of her head.

"Night, papa."

Fenris smiled as he shut the door to the room the girls and Orana had been given for their stay at Skyhold, his mind going over the past ten years of his life.  Not all of the memories were good.  Some were absolutely horrifying.  Despite that, he still had to count himself lucky. He would thank the Maker, if he truly believed in him.  When he found himself abandoned on the shore of Seheron so many years ago, he never would have thought his life to come to this place, a father, a lover, and a well-respected warrior, free of his chains with a future ahead of him that was more than promising.

Now, his past had caught up with him once again, and it was well past time he faced that fateful moment and how it inevitably led to making him the man he is now. With determination, he found his way back to the main hall, and down the steps towards the tavern where Ygraine waited for him with his friends as well as Dorian.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not be the best at replying, but let me know what you think. I would love to hear from you.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Fenris' past is revealed. Varric meddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't forgotten about you... Fenris and Hawke are trying to usurp the plot, and Dorian is being a brat. He is making this rather difficult to write. It took me a while to actually work out the last part of this chapter. I've had the beginning written for some time. Actually the middle section was the first thing I wrote for this fic, well before I even finished 'Crossroads'. Anyway, sorry for the delay. Enjoy!

"So, Fenris," Varric said warily as the elf joined them at the table Dorian had placed close to the tavern's hearth.  Hawke was once again comfortably placed in a chair, feet propped up somewhere beneath the table.  Only this time with a cup of the requested mulled cider in her hand, a near full pitcher on the hearth keeping warm.  "Care telling us how you know Dorian.  I must say, for as much as I remember six years of your fighting Anders about anything mage related, and your rather scathing opinions of anything Tevinter that isn't a bottle of red wine…"

"I do miss a good Agreggio," Dorian purred.  Fenris nodded in agreement.

Varric shook his head. "Seeing you willingly hug a mage from there has my mind boggled," he finished.

"Raine already knows some of this," Fenris answered tentatively, "but when I was still in Danarius' possession, we were forced to leave Seheron. The captain of the vessel that was taking him back to Minrathous refused room to slaves.  He claimed that there was no room aboard for us." Hawke nodded, remembering this from one of their first real conversations.  "Dorian was the reason why," Fenris nodded in the mage's direction.  "He bribed the captain to leave us behind, knowing that it would free us from our masters' control."

"I'll be damned," Varric muttered. 

"Not all of us that were left behind were able to adapt," Fenris continued. A dark look cast over Dorian's eyes as he took a long draw from his ale.  Fenris, a brief shadow to match, took a drink of his as well. "Others turned to the Qun in their need for order and structure.  For a long while, I hated him for separating me from my master," he looked pointedly at Dorian.  "But as time passed, as I lived with the Fog Warriors, I slowly began to learn what it was to be a free man, to be treated as a person.  It wasn't until after the first time Danarius found me that I truly realized how vile he really was." 

Fenris took another long, silent drink.  Raine, understanding the darkness of that moment, the pain Fenris was still not sharing with the rest of the group, reached out under the table, placing her hand on his thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze.  "Despite how painful those first few months were, and after my time with you," he leaned over to kiss Ygraine on the cheek before lovingly caressing her heavily pregnant belly as he continued, "I came to understand compassion.  I realized that you were only trying to help."  He nodded to Dorian.  "I have you to thank for my freedom as much as I do you and Raine, Dorian.  And though it is a decade late," he raised his tankard in appreciation as he looked Dorian directly in the eye.  "Thank you."

*****

Aedmon had sat silently as he listened to the tale unfold, curious to know this part of Dorian that he, as well as no one else, knew.  He had once hoped to get to know the mage better, but the way things were looking now with Dorian's continued avoidance of him, the chances of anything between them was fast dwindling to nothing.  Wistfully, he picked up his tankard and took a drink.  There had to be a way to change things. He just had to find the right way to change them.

As the night progressed, eventually the rest of the Inquisition found their way to the tavern to meet the Inquisitor's guests.  Fenris had bristled a little at the appearance of Cole, being reluctant to let yet another spirit near him or Hawke.  But after a reassurance from Dorian, the broody elf grudgingly accepted the boy's presence. 

Things heated up again when Bull showed up and recognized Fenris for his brands.  Apparently, they had encountered each other on opposite sides of the battlefield while in Seheron.  However, after a flurry of Qunlat between the warriors, both came to a tenuous understanding.  Apparently they had both had their fill of violence in Seheron and neither was willing to hold it against the other.

Eventually, after several tankards of ale, Varric's cards found their way on to the table and into a game of Wicked Grace. 

"So if I count right," Dorian began as Josephine dealt the cards again, "you have two children already and one on the way."  He nodded to Hawke's rather round belly. "How many are you planning on having in total?"

"She needs to stop having them," Varric answered before Hawke could. "Every time they decide to add to the family, something goes wrong in the world."

"Varric," Fenris growled in warning.

"Don't growl at me like that, Broody.  You know I'm right," he laughed as he stared Hawke in the eye. "Seriously, Hawke. Why is it that the world goes to shit every time you get pregnant?  I mean, really?" he gestured grandly across the table at the pair. "You and Fenris better go easy on it between the sheets after this one.  I'm not sure Thedas would actually survive should you try for a fourth addition to the family."

"Fifth," Hawke mumbled over her cards.

"Fifth?" Varric asked incredulously.  "Twins?" He looked towards Fenris in terror. "Broody, you better hope to the Maker that at least one of those is a boy," he declared pointing to Hawke's belly.  "I don't even want to think about what it would be like to live under the same roof as five Hawke women."  The dwarf shuddered.  "Twins…" he said again, lowly and with another shudder.  "No wonder it's the entire damn world at stake and not just a city."

"Honestly, Varric," Cullen chided, arranging his hand.  "It can't be all that bad."

"Curly, I can't believe you, of all people would be the one to defend her," Varric jokingly admonished.  "Remember the first time she was pregnant?"

Cullen looked at him blankly.

"Oh, that's right. Things were a bit off that time. None of us knew until after that she was even pregnant."  He gave Hawke a rather scathing look across the table, obviously still having not forgiven her for the past oversight, before turning that gaze on Fenris. "The first time she was pregnant," he continued, turning to Cullen.  "Kirkwall was invaded and nearly crushed by the Qunari."

"Maker's breath. You mean?" Cullen gasped in disbelief.

"That she dueled the Arishok over the fate of Kirkwall while three months pregnant?" Varric deadpanned.  "Yes. The second time, Anders blew up the Chantry and the Meredith went insane with red lyrium.  And this time… an ancient darkspawn magister decided to rip a hole in the very fabric of reality." 

The entire table looked towards Hawke, incredulously. 

"It's not like it's my fault," she pouted.

"It's just some seriously bad coincidence, then," Varric concluded.  "Either way you look at it, things just keep getting exponentially worse.  So please, do us all the favor.  Stop with these."

"I think I see your point," Cullen agreed.

"But they make such beautiful children," Dorian exclaimed.  "Who are we to criticize the creation of such perfection?  Just because a few buildings coincidentally blow up?  I think you're overestimating the power of Hawke's womb over the fate of Thedas."  He reached over to touch Hawke's belly reassuringly only to have his hand violently kicked off from the inside.  "Fine," he muttered, pulling his hand back as if burned.  "See if I speak up for your mother again, ungrateful thing."

Fenris chuckled.

"I can see that one already has your temperament," the Tevinter said to the elf.

*****

Hawke and Fenris were the first to leave, making their excuses after a long day of traveling and such.  Josephine and Cullen followed, needing to begin planning in the morning for the excursion into Crestwood. Dorian hung back, attempting to seem inconspicuous in waiting for Aedmon to announce his retiring for the evening.  He passed the remainder of the time joking with Bull and trading stories with Varric, hoping it wasn't too obvious that he was ignoring the Inquisitor. 

Bull, not caring as to why Dorian was lingering, kept drinking, joking about something drunkenly as he slapped Dorian on the back jovially.  That brief moment was all it took for Aedmon to slip out unnoticed. Sighing in relief, Dorian waited for a bit longer before quickly finishing his drink and making his own excuses and heading back to his room for the evening.

He didn't make it two steps outside the tavern door before he heard a voice behind him in the shadows.

"You can't keep avoiding me," Aedmon's voice called out from the shadows, making him jump.  For the second time since he met the rogue, Dorian let out the most undignified squawk.

"Dear Maker…" Dorian breathed, trying to calm himself.  "Are you trying to frighten me to death?" he asked.

"You asked me that once before," the rogue answered.

Dorian frowned. "Inquisitor," he began.

"No," Aedmon interrupted.  "You used to call me Aedmon.  We would drink, and laugh, and fight together.  Did I do something wrong?" 

The mage sighed. "No."

"Then did I read the situation wrong?"  He resisted the urge to take a step forward, to put himself in the mage's space. He so wanted to reach out, to touch that bare shoulder he knew to be taught muscle covered in smooth, velvet skin.

"Aedmon," Dorian whispered, ignoring the slight tremble in his own voice as he averted his eyes. 

It was Aedmon's turn to sigh.  This was a bad idea. He hadn't meant to put Dorian on the spot like this.  He just wanted to talk to the man, to break the tension that had grown between them, not add to it.  "Just stop avoiding me," he finally said.  "That's all I ask."  Without another word, Trevelyan turned, leaving the stunned mage behind.  "Good night, Dorian," he said as he left.

Dorian stood outside the tavern, silently watching Aedmon's back as the man ascended the stairs.

"You know…" Varric's voice suddenly said from behind him, causing Dorian to jump, and squawk, again.

"What the Void is it with you people?" he demanded.  "Are you all trying to frighten me into an early grave?"

Varric chuckled. "No.  But if you want my advice, don't let your past get in the way of your future."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dorian replied.

"Of course you don't," Varric said, shaking his head.  "What is it with you Tevinters? Is it an Imperium thing?"

"Excuse me?"

"The brooding," Varric answered.  "I used to think it was just Fenris, you know.  The tortured, ex-slave thing.  But now I'm starting to think it's just Tevinter men in general."

"I don't brood."

"Uh-huh," Varric shrugged, nodding his head in mock agreement.  "Keep telling yourself that, Sparkler." The dwarf sighed. "Let me tell you a story," he began.

"You really don't need to," Dorian said.

"Yes, I do," Varric countered.  "You see, there was once this elf who didn't know how to be happy. Didn't think he deserved it. One day, he got real close, but it frightened him so much he ran.  He had no idea what he was giving up.  Then something happened and he almost lost it, them, for good. It was almost too late when he realized exactly what he pushed away.  Lucky for him, things worked out," Varric finished. 

"Varric," Dorian began in warning.

"No, Sparkler," the dwarf continued, not giving the mage a chance to speak. "I will not stop meddling. And I sure as hell am not sitting around another three years waiting for one of my friends to pull their head out of their ass and put it back on their shoulders straight. Hate me if you like. You'll thank me later for it." With that, Varric strode away, leaving Dorian once more in silence, standing alone in the dark outside the tavern.

*****


	10. Chapter 10

Dorian hated the rain. He hated how it made everything so incredibly uncomfortable.  His socks squelched and squished with every step.  His trousers clung to him in the most chafing of ways. The Maker only knew what his hair looked like.  Most of all, he hated how the constant wet made it most difficult to set the undead aflame.

They had remained in Crestwood to help with the rising undead problem after finding the Warden Alistair.  He and Fenris left soon after their meeting for the Western Approach in search of the remaining Wardens and their connection to Corypheus.  Aedmon, however, felt it necessary to dispose of the town's undead problem, which entailed traipsing through the mud and muck, fighting brigands and countless reanimated corpses, as well as whatever else came their way. The mage sighed. He would need to replace these robes completely when they returned to Skyhold.  There would be no way to redeem them after this abuse. And his poor shoes. He sighed again. He didn't even want to think about them.

"You know," Dorian drawled as they finished opening the floodgates to the dam, "I may not be the foremost expert in darkspawn and all things Blighted, but I can hardly imagine the mindless brutes that they are actually flooding the valley below. Nor can I imagine them leaving the controls completely unharmed and operable if they did."

"I know," Aedmon agreed. "Something seems off about this," he continued as they left the room controlling the dam's floodgates and headed back out and towards the ruins of Old Crestwood.

"I'd say it smells about as bad as this place does," Varric added as they reached the bottom of the path leading towards the now not so flooded valley.

"Regardless," the Inquisitor continued, "we need to seal that rift before we can do anything about the rest of it."

*****

Two days later they found themselves standing in the now abandoned house of Crestwood's soon to be former mayor. 

"That son of a bitch," Aedmon snarled, crumpling the letter they had found on the desk.  He stormed out of the house without another word. 

"Hey Boss," Bull called after him as the group followed Trevelyan down the steps and the direction of the keep they had recently liberated.  "Can I ask what's got you seeing red? Where's the mayor?"

Aedmon was too furious to answer.  Instead, he thrust out his hand holding the letter in Bull's general direction.  Bull took the letter from the angry rogue, reading it for himself, growling low in anger himself with every word.

"The asshole flooded the village, himself," Bull informed the rest of the group. "Then he skipped town because his 'guilt' was too much for him to handle."

Dorian gasped at the news.  Varric shook his head. They had all been disturbed by what they found in the caves under Old Crestwood.  Not only the remains, but the obvious claw marks left in the soft limestone of the cave walls left behind in the villagers' desperate struggles to find a way out, to breathe, had left a thick, morose tension layered across the party's mood until they finally emerged into the sunlight.  Even then, the tension lingered.  To find out that it was deliberate, that it was murder, inflamed the entire group.

They continued in silence, until they reached the Inquisition camp in Caer Bronach. Aedmon, still fuming, angrily scrawled out a note, attached it, along with the Mayor's confession, to one of Leliana's birds and all but threw it into the sky. 

"We'll stay the night here," he finally said.  "Then we'll leave for Skyhold in the morning." Aedmon said nothing more, turning on his heel and heading towards the keep's battlements.  It was clear by the set of his shoulders as he stormed off that he did not wish to be followed.

*****

Night began to fall and still Aedmon hadn't returned to the camp.  Bull drifted off, having found a redheaded scout he hadn't met before, leaving Varric and Dorian to themselves around the campfire by their tents.  The moment wasn't exactly tense, however, things hadn't been exactly comfortable since the dwarf confronted the mage outside the Herald's Rest regarding his feelings for Aedmon.  So they sat, in silence, trying not to seem like they were avoiding the other.

"I spoke to Fenris," Dorian finally broke the silence. 

"You did?" Varric asked, trying his best to keep his tone neutral so as not to scare the mage away from the conversation.

"Yes."

"And?"

Dorian sighed, a long, heavy, heartrending sigh.  "Actually it was more like he spoke to me, once I worked up the nerve to ask.  Dreadfully one-sided and all that," he began slowly.

Varric chuckled. He found it rather amusing that Fenris, the king of broody, who had once run away from a relationship himself, would be giving advice to another.

"Varric," Dorian hesitated.  "Where I am from, this sort of thing isn't done."

"But you're not there, Sparkler.  Not any more."

"Yes, I know that. But after years of constantly being told that you're wrong, that who and what you are is a complete aberration…"  His voice faded, unable to continue the conversation.  " _Fasta Vass_ …" he cursed.  "I'm going to bed.  Need my beauty sleep and all.  Wake me if anything interesting happens."

With that, Varric was left alone, cursing the Tevinter Imperium for its propensity to take good men and completely mind fuck them into insecure fools who could no longer see their own worth.

*****

Aedmon sat on the battlements long into the night.  The revelation of Old Crestwood and the Mayor's culpability in the murder of hundreds of innocent people hardly made him fit company to be around. How could someone do something so horrible?  How could the Maker allow it to happen?  He could still see the remains, buried under years of silt.  From the look of some, they weren't all adults. There were bodies that had been too small to be anything but a child, some even infants. 

Though he was the youngest of his family, he was still old enough to remember when the first grandchild had been born to his parents.  His nephew had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and even though he was young, around eight winters, he knew what he held in his arms was the most precious thing in all of Thedas. 

Seeing Hawke and Fenris' new additions to their now rather large family reminded him of that. They had to delay their journey to Crestwood initially due to Hawke's sudden and rather dramatic early labor. Aedmon chuckled at the memory. The woman had been in the library, visiting Dorian and discussing his research when the stress of everything, the news of Corypheus, the strain of traveling so late in her pregnancy, caught up with her and the twins decided they could no longer wait.  Dorian had been completely beside himself as, due to complications, they were unable to move Hawke and the twins were born in his little alcove in the library.  He had to promise Dorian a new rug to replace the one that was now stained.

The entire event, however, had reminded him there was still innocence in the world. There were families all over Thedas, moving on with their lives, trying to survive in a world that was falling apart.  If anything, it was a reason to continue despite the desire to abdicate the pressure of the titles he still did not want.  The Maker may not care about his children, but the look in Fenris' eyes as he gently held Hawke through the trials of labor, as he held both of his newborn children, almost sparked a moment of faith. 

Then there were the caves of Old Crestwood.  Why would the Maker, if he even existed, allow for such a travesty?

With a heavy sigh, he left the battlements, realizing the futility of this current train of thought. The Maker would not answer him no matter how hard he searched for an answer.  Slowly, he made his way back to the tents and what, hopefully, would be a decent night's sleep. 

*****

An uncontrollable groan, low and frustrated escaped his lips as Aedmon turned from the tent Varric was sharing with Bull.  "Varric," he growled, rubbing his hand across his face. Leave it to the meddling dwarf to manipulate things like this.  Looking at the remaining tents, he had a good suspicion as to which tent was left with an open bedroll.  Much to his dismay, he was correct.

Letting the tent flap fall closed behind him, he looked on the bedroll, his stuff neatly stacked to the side of it, in resignation.  He then looked at the accompanying bedroll, where Dorian slept peacefully, oblivious to his presence. 

Why should it be any different, now, Aedmon thought.  The Tevinter mage, though he was avoiding him less after their last conversation, still seemed uncomfortable looking him in the eye.

Aedmon quickly stripped out of his armor as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Dorian and make things even more awkward between them.  In moments he was sitting on his bedroll, blankets drawn up around his waist, looking over at the mage's sleeping form.

"You confound me, Dorian Pavus, scion of House Pavus and recently of Minrathous," he said softly, finally voicing the confusion that lay deep in his mind and heart. "You are as complicated as how you first introduced yourself to me.  One moment you're comfortable and open, smiling and laughing with complete abandon.  Next, you're closed off…" he sighed, laying down and pulling the blankets up to his chin.  "You never answered my question," he mumbled as he rolled over, putting his back to Dorian. "Was I just reading things wrong?"

*****

On the other side of the tent, Dorian lay still, trying desperately to not give away the fact that he woke up as soon as he heard the Aedmon's first steps inside the tent. What he didn't expect as a result of this deception was the rogue's confession.  So he lay there, still and silent, avoiding the entire situation as he had been for the past several weeks. 

No, he thought, you weren't reading anything wrong.  I just… can't… It's too much for someone like me…

*****


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian receives a letter from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay... so I really, really hate it when I'm reading a fic and it's all dialogue from the game. It's so hard to make it sound genuine. Besides, I'm guessing we've all played, and that's why we're all here. All the dialogue in this chapter that is directly game related I've constructed from memory. I'm not going to look up cut scenes online to get it word for word from the game. So I know for a fact that it's not game accurate. Please forgive me for that, but it flows better with my head canon (and how I see the characters) if I use a modified version that fits better with what I am trying to portray.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are welcome!

Aedmon stared at the letter he held in his hand.  No matter how he decided to handle this, he knew it was going to go wrong. There was no possible way it could not. Still, the best way to avoid the most damage was to simply talk to Dorian, himself.  Both the letter and the Revered Mother suggested tricking the mage into the meeting with the family retainer.  Aedmon, however, knew that would be the worst. The two of them may not be on speaking terms the past few months, but he knew it their positions were reversed, the disrespect of being tricked would solidify the rift between the two. No, if he ever hoped for Dorian to break past what ever it was that was keeping him from whatever it was they had been close to having, he would need to be nothing but transparent about the entire matter.

Though why he still bothered, he didn't know or understand.

Maybe it was time to give up.  He had pined long enough over someone who was desperately set against returning his feelings. Still, he thought, he couldn't have read everything wrong.  It would help if he understood Dorian's reluctance.  At least then he could move on, or let it go.  But to be left like this, with no reason or rhyme… he shook his head.  No. He had seen the look in Dorian's eyes that night clearly.  It had been a look of pain, a deeply rooted pain laced with fear.  What, who, had put that look in his eyes?

He had his suspicions, though.  He had paid attention, and the little details, the ones that Dorian let slip, though mostly during their drinking when he was a little less capable of carefully crafting his words, all pointed to his family and his homeland.  A fact, of which, made this all the more daunting.

No sense standing in the middle of the main hall, staring at the damned thing, he chastised himself.  Better get it over with as quickly as possible.  Turning, he straightened his shirt unnecessarily and headed as resolutely as he could towards Dorian's hiding place in the library.  Of all the things to think about, he realized he still hadn't seen the new rug he had ordered for Dorian's little personal space. He shook his head, laughing a little hysterically to himself, as he ascended the steps into the library. He had picked it out specifically thinking of the reluctant mage and hoped it looked like it had been described to him.  More that that, he hoped Dorian liked it.

*****

Dorian glared at the letter in his hands, anger and hurt welling up through him.  "He knows me?" he all but shrieked. "He _knows_ me?!"  He crumpled the already worn letter.  "Like hell he does.  He knows _nothing_ of me!" Dorian paced his little alcove, feet muffled by the sound of the new carpet beneath his feet. "It's probably some form of trap.  Hired henchman or something come to bash me over the head and cart my unconscious body back to Tevinter.  Back home to become the good little boy I refuse to be."  He shuddered at the thought.  It was why he left home in the first place. 

"I won't let that happen," Aedmon said trying to be reassuring, however it still came out with a bit of a growl. 

"Really, now, Inquisitor?"

"Yes, really," he replied.  "You've gone through too much already to let that happen.  Besides, you won't be going alone."

Dorian could only stare at Aedmon in response to that.  Why would he come with him?  After everything he had done to try and discourage the man's advances, to put a rift between them at the risk of their friendship and his place within the Inquisition, what could he possibly gain in helping Dorian with his family problems?

"Dorian," Aedmon sighed.  He reached his hand out.  For a moment it looked as if he were going to caress the mage's face, but at the last moment those fingers settled on his shoulder.  Dorian tried not to shudder at the feel of them against his skin. "I won't pretend to know why you left.  But you never talk of home.  Oh you talk of Tevinter, plenty," he stalled Dorian's retort, "but you never talk of home. Your parents, your family, they never come up in conversation.  Anytime someone else brings it up, you find some way of avoiding it."

Dorian tried to reply, but he found his voice caught in his throat.  He hadn't expected anyone to notice.  He had been more than careful in not only avoiding the topic of conversation, but in carefully crafting his responses as well so as to redirect it back on the others in what ever group he was in at the time. No one was supposed to know. Once again, he felt his heart flutter. Despite every horrible thing he did to the rogue, no matter now hard he drove that wedge between them, this man still found it in him to notice.  If he survived this encounter with his father's retainer, if he was still here in the south at Skyhold and not some drooling vegetable wetting himself in his father's house…

He pushed those thoughts aside.  Nothing good would come of a relationship.  He already learned that lesson well.

Before he could find his voice, Aedmon continued.  "Whatever you think, you do not need to face this alone."

Just be gracious, Dorian told himself.  He was far to graceless when it came to accepting help when it was freely offered, with no strings attached no less.  "Thank you," he whispered, trying not to turn in to the hand still resting on his shoulder. 

"We'll leave when you're ready," the Inquisitor said, finally removing his hand. "Just let me know."

"Tomorrow," the mage replied, if only to stifle the small noise of regret he felt bubbling up in his throat at the loss of the warmth of that hand.  "I just want to get this over with. Tomorrow morning should give us enough time to prepare for the trip to Redcliffe."

Aedmon nodded. "I'll see you in the morning, then," he said as he stepped back before turning to leave.

Dorian watched his retreating form with thinly veiled longing, the memory of his hands clutching at those broad shoulders as they hovered over him, of those hips as they fit perfectly in the cradle of his own rising unbidden in his mind. If anyone were to ask, or say something, he would vehemently deny everything.  He shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts. His eyes caught on the letter, still crumpled in his hand.  Another memory, just as unwanted, crept to the fore of his mind.

It was the look of abject horror and disdain in storm grey eyes and a single word.

_Disgusting…_

*****

The journey to Redcliffe was tense, made mostly in silence as Dorian thought over who his father could have possibly sent to meet him.  Why would he have sent someone now, of all times.  He had been in the south for almost a year now, so what had changed to make his father suddenly interested in what he was doing. Of all the possibilities he had expected, hearing his father apologize was far from making the list.

He had almost left things as they were, angry words and regrets filling that pitifully empty tavern. Trevelyan's words, however, had stopped him from leaving.

_"Don't leave it like this, Dorian. He may be in the wrong, but he's reaching out.  Trying to make up for it.  The world is going to the Void, slowly tearing itself apart at the seams.  Nothing guarantees you'll ever see him again. Before you leave, make sure it is truly what you want.  Could you honestly live with yourself, passing this opportunity up if it never comes again."_

The look in Aedmon's eyes had been heartrending.  There was something there, deeply buried.  Dorian had seen it on few occasions, but it always accompanied a sense of mourning, of loss.  Though the man never said anything, denying any such emotion when asked, Dorian knew Aedmon to be lying.  It was more than the pressure of the Breach, of his mark and the Conclave, of being the Herald of Andraste.  It was a look that said he knew intimately what loss was, and that alone was enough to weaken Dorian's resolve.  He knew, deep down, that his anger was not that at all.  It was hurt and betrayal.  And, though he would deny it, love.  It wouldn't hurt nearly as much if he didn't love his father. 

So he stayed. Aedmon gracefully hid in the shadow of a corner in the tavern, his presence a comfort letting Dorian know he was not alone while still giving complete privacy as the two Pavus men tried to have their first civil conversation in who knew how long. 

It wasn't until they had finally returned to Skyhold and Dorian was alone in his little alcove in the library that Aedmon finally sought the mage out.  He had been unusually reserved since his conversation with his father, and the rogue was increasingly concerned.

"Hey," he said as he rounded the corner of Dorian's hideaway to find the mage gazing out the window of his corner.  "I've wanted to ask how are you holding up?" he asked.  "There just hasn't seemed to be a good time. I figured you didn't want to discuss it in front of Varric and Bull."  He shrugged.  Aedmon knew it was a pathetic excuse, but the mage had looked like he needed his time alone, to himself.  No need pouring salt into the fresh wound that was the man's relationship with his father.

"He says we're a lot a like," Dorian mumbled without turning around.  "Too much pride."  Dorian gave a weary laugh at that.  "It would have made me so happy to have heard that years ago.  Not so sure what I think about it now, though."

Aedmon wasn't sure exactly what to say to that, so he remained quiet, taking a step or two forward into the alcove and leaning against the bookshelf.  It hurt to see Dorian looking so lost.

"You must think so terribly of me, now," Dorian continued after a few moments. "Dragging you through all this unsightly family drama and such.  Who would have thought," he shrugged, "Dorian Pavus, the great Social Pariah of Tevinter, voluntarily exiled for nothing more noble than that his preferences didn't match up with the social norms. I wouldn't marry the girl, you see," he finally turned in Aedmon's direction.  "I wouldn't settle down and be exactly what he wanted me to be.  Marry for the good of the Pavus line.  Sire an heir. Spend the rest of my life screaming silently on the inside, pretending to be something I'm not."

Dorian folded his arms and looked away, sighing heavily.  "But you don't want to hear about all of this, do you?" he asked rhetorically.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not good company at the moment.  In fact, I think I'll go drink myself into a stupor.  It's been one of those days.  You can join me if you've half a mind to," he finished, not expecting Aedmon to accept his offer.

"Actually," Aedmon answered, straightening up from where he had been leaning against the bookshelf, "I think I will.  I happen to have come into possession of another vintage bottle of whiskey, and it's never fun to drink alone."

"Ah, my dear Inquisitor," Dorian said, trying to decline Aedmon's offer, "but I'm not drinking to have fun."

"All the more reason not to do it alone," Aedmon replied softly.

Dorian closed his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to still his trembling heart. He was not used to such gentle openness.  In that moment, what was left of his crumbling barriers fell apart completely.  He had tried so hard to push the rogue away from the walls of his heart, but the man had managed to breach them anyway. It was in that moment Dorian realized how useless and utterly idiotic his reticence had been. He had left his homeland and his family because this was denied him, then, in a fit of insecurity and fear, denied himself the same thing he desperately sought.  The absurdity of the entire thing made him want to laugh.  Or maybe cry. He wasn't sure which.

Dorian nodded his agreement, not trusting his voice, a wry smile on his face as he gestured for Trevelyan to lead the way.

*****


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the drama in Redcliffe, Aedmon and Dorian take the evening to drink in front of the Inquisitor's fireplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than what I wanted to post, but it was either this, or way, way longer. It also got way serious really quickly. Not apologizing for the angst, but I don't think it will stay this way for much longer. This was a good place to break the drinking after family drama in Redcliffe, so don't kill me...

Hours later, the night found them curled up and pleasantly drunk before the fire in Aedmon's quarters much like they used to curl up together in Haven.  The remains of a substantial dinner tray had been pushed to the side of the hearth, a loaf of bread and some meat left over. Dorian sat on the floor, leaning up against the extra couch Aedmon had placed there shortly after moving in. His feet were stretched out towards the fire, warming against the chill of the evening that threatened to creep in through the closed windows of Aedmon's balconies. 

They sat in comfortable silence, Aedmon long since having lain down on his side with his head in the mage's lap, hair unbound as Dorian ran his fingers gently through its length. Neither felt the need to talk, not really.  The past week had been trying for the mage, and Aedmon instinctively knew that. So instead of pushing the issue, of forcing awkward conversation between them, the rogue instead chose to remain silent, giving Dorian what he needed most; the company of someone who accepted him as he was with no expectations. 

"Who did you lose?" Dorian asked softly, finally breaking the silence. If it weren't for his fingers running gently through Aedmon's hair, he would have not have noticed the faint, brief tensing of the rogue's shoulders. 

"I don't know what you mean?" Aedmon tried to deflect the question.

"You're not the only one that pays attention, Aedmon," Dorian replied. "The words you said to me in Redcliffe, in the tavern, those weren't just words of reason, were they? They were words of experience."

Aedmon sighed. "Did you know I was supposed to be a Templar?" he asked, not moving from Dorian's lap, his gaze directed at the fire.  "My father wanted me dedicated to the Order."

"I don't see what that has to do with the question," Dorian pouted, causing Aedmon to chuckle a little.

The rogue rolled over onto his back to look up at Dorian, his head still resting on the mage's thigh. "I was a bit of a surprise, you see.  By the time I came around, my parents already had five children."

"Five?"

Aedmon nodded. "Maxwell is the oldest. He was fifteen when I was born. The girls all came in a rush, six years between the oldest and the youngest of them."

Dorian couldn't imagine such a family.  Five siblings. Being an only child, the very idea was something he couldn't wrap his mind around.

"Andrea, the youngest of the girls, was six when I finally showed up.  By then Mother and Father were certain they were finished with having children."  He laughed lightly.  "Mother tells me I was a difficult child from the start." He rolled over, back onto his side so as to not have to face Dorian for the rest of his tale. "It's a family tradition that at least one of the Trevelyan children be dedicated to the Chantry. By time I was eight, my nephew had been born.  There was no need for me to marry for the sake of the family line.  Max had already started his own family and was well on his way to taking over the family seat in Ostwick.  Father began negotiations with the Chantry for my acceptance into the Order by the time I was ten."

"Let me guess," Dorian interjected when Aedmon halted in his telling.  "You didn't want to have anything to do with his plans?"

"None whatsoever," Aedmon answered.  "He tried for six years to convince me, much to his frustration. Finally I had had enough. When I was sixteen, I enlisted in the Guard.  Father was absolutely beside himself.  It was almost a year before he would even speak to me."

"And your mother?"

Aedmon laughed again, this time a little more lightly.  "You know that favorite pair of daggers I have?"

"The ones you insist on keeping despite how they are no longer capable of holding an edge?"

"My mother had those made for me.  She ordered them from the best weapons smith in Ostwick the day after I came home and announced my commission.  Said she wasn't going to have her son running around the city, putting an end to bandits and thieves with a substandard pair of daggers.  Not that the city didn't provide their guards with adequate weaponry or anything.  I honestly think that if Father could have gotten away with not speaking to her for a while, he would have.  No one can ignore Mother for long, though," he laughed. 

"What prompted your father to start speaking with you again?"  Dorian wasn't sure where the story was going, or how it related to his question, but he was intrigued nonetheless. Hearing about Aedmon's childhood, about his family and his relationship with them was a painful form of intimacy. Was this what it was to have a relationship?  To know more than just how well someone fucked?  But instead to know more about them as a person?  He didn't have such stories about his family. Then again, Aedmon already knew that.

"Andrea," Aedmon said, whispering her name reverently.  "She decided shortly after my entering the guard that she wanted a life in the Chantry.  She was never fond of court life.  She told me that my making my own decision, doing what I wanted with my life instead of what was expected finally gave her the courage to accept her calling."

"Your sister was a Sister in the Chantry?" Dorian asked a little incredulously.

Aedmon nodded. "She gave up everything we had as nobles in Ostwick and dedicated her time to helping those less fortunate than we were.  Spent most of her time in the slums and the Alienage.  She received the title of Mother a little over a year ago."

"Remarkable."

"You would have liked her, I think," Aedmon said softly, curling up on himself without leaving Dorian's lap.

"Would have?" Dorian asked tentatively.  The past tense was painfully obvious.  He was beginning to understand the direction of Aedmon's narrative.

"With her heritage being from a noble family in the Free Marches, she was chosen to accompany the Ostwick Chantry's representative to the Conclave.  I was there because the Templars had already abdicated their responsibility to the Circle in Ostwick after the mages there rebelled. My Captain assigned me the task of their security."

Dorian's hand stilled where it was, fingers carded through Aedmon's hair, brushing against his temple. Suddenly so much made sense. He remembered that night in Haven when Corypheus had attacked.  The tired, sadness in Aedmon's eyes as he ranted half drunkenly in anger at the Maker for allowing him to survive instead of others that were far more devout than he would ever be.  The anger, the deep-rooted sadness and reluctance to accept his role as Herald and Inquisitor, was now clearly understandable. 

"You miss her."  It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't understand why the Maker…"

"How unbelievably selfish of you," Dorian interrupted.

"Excuse me?" Aedmon sat up, turning angrily towards Dorian.

"I am an only child," Dorian began as he leaned forward, closing some of the distance between him and Aedmon as he defended his statement.  "I cannot begin to comprehend what it is to have, and to lose the love of a sibling.  And I certainly cannot understand the kind of familial love you have described tonight.  But I do understand selfishness." Dorian exclaimed.  "You're telling me that you believe the Maker made a mistake? That he is punishing you for some slight against his name?  That you are unworthy of surviving and that you would trade places with your sister if it meant she survived?  Selfish!"

"How in the Void is that selfish?"

"Have you even paid attention to your life the past six months?"  Dorian gestured in Aedmon's direction.

The question brought Aedmon up short.  He sat there, glaring at Dorian, trying to process what the mage might possibly mean by that.

"You physically stepped out of the Fade," the mage began.  "That, in and of itself, should terrify you. What ever happened to you while in there was bad enough that you have no memory of it.  You survived an explosion that killed hundreds of innocents along with the Divine only to be marked as the most hated man in Thedas until the one actually responsible for said explosion raised an army to hunt you down and destroy you.  You narrowly survived a rather pitched battle with that army only to just as narrowly survive dropping a mountain on your head in defense of the rest of your forces. And in less than a month you are going to willingly throw yourself into the den of vipers that is Orlesian politics to try and prevent the assassination of the Empress.  Oh," he exclaimed as he came to an end of his rant, "I forgot!  The one that wants you dead just happens to be an ancient Tevinter magister that cracked the Golden City and began the Blights over a millennia ago and has a pet Archdemon.  Did I miss anything?"

Aedmon shook his head, speechless.

"Is this is what you are wishing on your sister?"

"I…" Aedmon tried to find the words, though none would come to mind.

"Because if I hear one more word about how the Maker screwed up in letting you survive, I might just freeze your balls off.  Or light that damned beard of yours on fire."

Aedmon's shoulders slumped as the meaning of Dorian's words sank in.  He stared at his hands gathered in his lap.  There were new scars across them, fine lines pink against the slight tan of their skin.  He turned over his left, the mark glowing an eerie green counterpoint to the flickering fire behind him.  Would he really wish the terror and frustration that his life had become on anyone?  Was he truly being selfish? 

"Now," Dorian continued, his tone lighter.  "All this seriousness has completely destroyed what pleasant fuzziness that was beginning to play with my head.  We still have a bottle to finish.  I have a rather ugly conversation with my father to forget, and you," he reached out grabbing Aedmon's marked hand in his, bringing it to his lips in a gentle, seductive kiss.  "You have the weight of the world to ignore for at least an evening," he whispered against the palm of Aedmon's hand.

Aedmon's breath hitched at the feel of Dorian's lips against his palm.  The feeling was exquisite, sending shivers racing up his arm and down his spine.  "Don't," he whispered. 

"Don't what?" Dorian asked, his eyes full of wickedness as he kissed the inside of Aedmon's hand again. 

 *****


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hearing Aedmon's story from the Conclave, now it is Dorian's turn for uncomfortable revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I'm happy with this or not. The beginning was completely unwilling to cooperate with me, hence the delay in posting. My apologies for that.
> 
> Again, all game dialogue is from memory. I've tried to stay as true as I could remember, however, this flows well for the way I've imagined the scene. I know some of the events are a little out of order, but for those of you that have played this particular romance, I am more than likely going to skip the amulet part of Dorian's personal quest. My reasons are my own in this... but hopefully you won't mind too terribly if I advance them to this place in their relationship.
> 
> Leave me a note, kudos, anything to let me know what you think.   
> Enjoy!

"I thought this was what you wanted?" Dorian purred as he moved to kiss the inside of Aedmon's wrist.  "If not, then why invite me to drink with you?"

"And you call me selfish?" Aedmon snapped, quickly pulling his hand away.  "I saw a friend hurting, asking for comfort and I didn't want him to be drinking alone. A friend who has repeatedly shut me out and pushed me away for reasons he refused to explain, might I add, so forgive me if sex is off the table when you've hardly said two words to me since that night I came to you in your tent."

Dorian tried not to show his disappointment when Aedmon pulled away. "I suppose I deserve that," he said softly.

"I don't understand you, Dorian.  One moment you act one way, then you change completely and act another.  Which is it? Do you want this or not? Because I don't do the hot and cold, on and off thing.  You either want me, or you don't."

"But what is this?" Dorian asked.

"Nothing at the moment," Aedmon replied. "Not at least until you figure out what you want."

Dorian looked away, eyes focusing on the fire still blazing in the hearth as he tried to gather his thoughts.  The irony of him being at a loss for words did not escape him.  With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to Aedmon.  "I don't know how to do this," he said, voice low and insecure. "You see, in Tevinter, it's not done.  Relationships, that is. When it's two men, it's all about pleasure.  What can you give the other for one night.  When it's done, you go about your life.  There is nothing more.  It's part of why I left."

"Part?"

Dorian nodded, swallowing his fear at what he was about to say. "My father tried to change me," he whispered.

"Change you?  How?"

"Blood magic."  Dorian cringed.  The memories of that night still too painful to recall.  "He was desperate.  I wouldn't settle down, play the dutiful son, get married and start a family.  So he resorted to blood magic.  He had found this spell that would change me.  Change my mind.  Make me more, amenable."  Dorian took a moment to compose himself before he lost the tenuous hold he had on his emotions, grateful that Aedmon said nothing.  Instead, the rogue sat quietly, waiting for Dorian to finish his tale. "It didn't matter to him that I could have ended up a vegetable, a complete invalid drooling into my pillow while the nursemaid changed my smallclothes."

"Dorian," Aedmon began only to be interrupted by Dorian's finger placed across his lips.

"Shhh," he whispered.  "You must think so terribly of me now," he said. "I couldn't bear it, though, if you said as much.  Let me pretend, at least for the moment, that you don't think any less of me."

"Why would I think any less of you?" Aedmon asked incredulously.  "If anything, I think more.  You've already been through so much, yet you still remain standing.  I'd say that's brave."

"Brave?" Dorian scoffed.  "I would hardly call myself brave.  I left Tevinter because the dictates of my society denied me the opportunity to be true to myself.  But now that the opportunity I so craved sits in front of me," he reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers across the back of Aedmon's hand before circling the other man's fingers with his, lightly grasping his fingers. "I am positively frightened," he finally admitted both to himself and to Aedmon.  "What if I get it wrong?"

"You're a fool, Dorian Pavus," Aedmon replied.

Dorian bristled at the statement.

"I don't have the answers for you," the rogue continued. "At least not to that question.  Nor can I foresee the future and tell you if this will work.  I, at least, am willing to try.  If you're not, then that's fine.  I just need to know either or.  I will tell you this, unless you're willing to try, you're left with nothing anyway.  All I can promise is that we walk through this together."  With that, Aedmon turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with Dorian's. 

Dorian lowered his eyes to where their hands sat linked between them.  The gentle caress of Aedmon's thumb as it stroked over his lulled him with a sense of security. Such a simple gesture held more intimacy than he had ever experienced.  His heart craved this.  It was the touch of a friend, of one who cared for more than just fulfilling their own carnal needs. 

"This… this goes against every rule I have ever known," he whispered. 

"Since when did you care about rules?" Aedmon scoffed.

Dorian laughed wryly at that.

"Besides, I'm good at breaking rules."

"Just please, don't go breaking anything else," Dorian pled, his voice faint and unsure.  "Some things are still rather delicate."

"On the contrary," Aedmon purred as he shifted to lean forward, his free hand coming up to brush gently across Dorian's cheek. "You are far stronger than you give yourself credit," he said as he closed the distance between them.

The touch of Aedmon's lips was gentle, undemanding, and they tasted of the whiskey they had been drinking.  It was blissful.  He had only felt their pressure once, so many nights ago when he stupidly pushed the rogue away.  That night, those lips had been full of passion, heated and fervent, biting and desperate. Tonight, the passion was still there, as was the urgency.  Only it was held in check, tempered by what Dorian could only surmise was Aedmon's desire to make this his choice, to give him complete control of the situation. He could tell, he only needed to give the slightest hint of unsureness, of insecurity, and Aedmon would back away.

He didn't want that.  One thing was true about what Aedmon had said.  He had acted the coward.  He wouldn't make the same mistake again. No.  He was tired of playing the fool.  Boldness warred with insecurity, his mind a roiling contradiction.  Boldness, however, won the moment and he deepened the kiss, his tongue snaking out to caress Aedmon's lower lip, answering the rogue's silent question. Aedmon responded instantly, his lips parting in invitation.  Dorian moaned softly, the sound a whisper of passion as he ran his hands over Aedmon's shoulders, drawing the rogue closer to him as he shifted, leaning back to lie across the carpet in front of the hearth.  As before, Aedmon fit perfectly in the cradle of Dorian's hips.

Aedmon broke the kiss, raising himself up slightly in order to look Dorian in the eye.  "Are you sure?" he asked.

Dorian raised his hand, carding his fingers through the curtain of Aedmon's hair that now cascaded around them.  "You were right.  I am a fool.  The time for conversation, however, I believe is past.  Not that it hasn't been fun and all, this flirting and such, but if you're agreeable, I think it's time we moved on to something more primal."

"Primal?"

"Yes," Dorian purred.  "You've never struck me as the innocent Chantry type, dear Inquisitor.  So why don't you show me just how bad you can be."  To punctuate his statement, Dorian raised his hips, rocking against Aedmon's still clothed erection with his own, a gentle, teasing thrusting.

"Mmmmm," Aedmon growled, low in his throat. "I think I can be convinced," he replied, his lips ghosting across Dorian's throat.

"Wonderful," was all Dorian had a chance to say before everything quickly became a tangle of limbs. 

*****

Aedmon woke to find Dorian still in his arms, the light streaming through the windows casting a multitude of colored patches across his skin. Somehow they had managed to make their way to the bed during the night, pulling the covers up around their sated bodies.  It was almost too good to be true to find the mage had stayed the night.  He had half expected to wake to find that Dorian had quietly left before the rest of the keep had a chance to rise. He smiled as Dorian murmured in his sleep, snuggling closer.  He was tempted to reach out to the mage, brush aside his sleep mussed hair, but didn't for fear of waking the man.  Instead, he pulled him closer, burying his nose in Dorian's hair, breathing in the scent of him. 

Dorian stirred, his eyes fluttering awake.  "Morning, Amatus," he whispered, kissing Aedmon's chest where his head lay. 

"Morning," Aedmon replied. 

"Surprised to see me?" Dorian asked, lifting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"A little," the rogue replied as he reached up to brush the hair out of the way of Dorian's forehead.  "I half expected you to want to avoid the scandal of leaving my rooms after the main hall had filled with nobles."

"Mmmm," he purred, leaning in to Aedmon's touch as the rogue caressed his cheek.  "Then maybe I shall further scandalize them and wait until at least lunch before I make my dramatic entrance.  Besides," Dorian continued.  "It's not as if I could walk straight at the moment."

Aedmon chuckled a little. 

"It's your fault," the mage complained, swatting at Aedmon's chest. 

"And you enjoyed every moment of it." He caught Dorian's hand, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"True," Dorian mused.

"Then don't complain."

"Yes, Amatus."  Dorian lay back down, settling back into the crook of Aedmon's arm, snuggling as close to his warmth as he could get.

"What does that mean, Amatus?" Aedmon asked, shifting to provide a more comfortable line for Dorian to snuggle into.

Dorian only shook his head.  "Not yet," he whispered, placing another kiss on Aedmon's chest. "Not yet."

Aedmon didn't reply, only pulled Dorian closer. After everything, he didn't want to push the mage for more than he was ready.  Besides, if the tone of the word was anything to go by, he knew with Dorian's troubled past that it was more than the man was willing to admit to at the moment.  It was enough for him that Dorian had stayed, willing to brave the scandal, to wake in his arms this morning.

*****


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Cullen's chess game is interrupted. What starts as a simple accident transforms into a life changing event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a brief break from the main plot, here. Andra demanded a little bit of story time...
> 
> Sorry for the wait, but life has been rather busy the past few months. Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Dorian sat sprawled in his chair, playing with chess with Cullen.  They were due to leave for Orlais within the week, and this was the last game they would be able to have for a while.  Both were enjoying the relaxing familiarity of the moment, their worries set aside for a brief time, when a shrill wail broke through the air in the garden.  Both men turned just in time to see Andra bolting across the garden.

"Bethy!" she cried, shrill and terrified.

They followed quickly, concern for the children making them forget their current game.

What they found was Bethy, crumpled on the floor of the walkway at the foot of the stairs leading to the battlements, wailing in pain.  Andra sat cradling her sister, crying.  "I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears. "I'm sorry. Don't cry.  Please don't cry."

Mother Giselle arrived as they did.  "Come child," she said, her voice soft and comforting.  "Let me take you both to your mother."

Andra shook her head, refusing.  "Please don't. It's my fault. I was supposed to be watching her. Mama's so tired with the new babies.  Please don't tell her."

Dorian looks at Cullen, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.  Crying children are so far outside his range of experience. Cullen stepped forward, kneeling beside the two girls.  His familiar presence calmed Andra some.  "I'll take care of them, Mother Giselle," he said as he ran his hand gently across the top of Andra's head.  "And we still need to tell your mother," he told the little girl.  "But maybe not right this minute," he amended as Andra's eyes widened in fear.

He carefully leaned forward, removing Bethy from her sister's arms in order to look her over. Her arm was broken from where she fell down the stairs.  "I'm sorry, Andra, but we can't wait to take her to your mother." Hawke, he knew as both a Spirit Healer and their mother, would prefer being the one to set and heal her daughter's arm.

"NO!" Andra wailed.  "Please don't she… she…" she started to cry more in earnest.

"Andra, sweetheart, your sister's arm is broken," Cullen said gently. "It will continue to hurt her until we get it healed."

"But it's my fault.  I was supposed to be watching her," the little girl whimpered.  "I'm sorry, Bethy, this is my fault." She reached forward from where she now knelt by her sister's side, her hand hovering tentatively over the younger girl's arm.  A sudden blue glow formed around her hand as it hovered near the broken arm. A small gasp escaped Andra as she realized what it was that was happening, a gasp that was echoed in both Cullen and Dorian.  Andra's eyes lit up, no longer filled with sorrow and fear.  Her eyes lifted, looking at her little sister who had stopped crying. 

"Fix it?" the little girl asked, the familiar blue glow of healing magic calming her.

Andra nodded, reaching for her sister's arm.

"You need to straighten it out, first," Dorian said gently from where he had replaced Cullen, now kneeling beside the girls.  His magic may be in a completely different field of study, but he knew enough of the mechanics that went along with healing after spending so much time in the heat of battle with the Inquisitor.  He was also the only mage currently in the garden. "It won't heal properly if you don't.  So be gentle. Support her arm from underneath as you move it.  Don't pull, guide it with your other hand."

Andra nodded, face now twisted in concentration.  Dorian continued to hover, just behind and to the side as he and Cullen watched Andra gather Bethy's arm gently in her other hand, supporting it as told.

"I can feel it," Andra gasped softly as she began to move the arm. 

"What can you feel?" Dorian asked calmly, helping the girl focus through the newness of the experience.

"There's a crack," the girl replied.  "It goes all the way through.  And it hurts.  It hurts bad."

"That's where the bone is broken.  Let your magic work along that break.  Keep feeling it as it mends together," Dorian said. 

Andra fell silent as she focused on where she could feel the damage in her sister's arm, the blue glow expanding to envelope it as well as the girl's other hand also took light with healing magic.  Moments passed as Dorian and Cullen watched in silence and awe.  Most mages manifested elementally, either fire or ice. It was rare to see one manifest as a Spirit Healer.  Gradually, Bethy's tears subsided, coming to an end as the glow faded from Andra's hands.

Reluctantly, Andra let go of her sister's arm.  "Did it work?" she asked tentatively, looking from Bethy to Dorian. Her voice was strained.

As if in response to the question, Bethy raised her arm, giggling as she wiggled her fingers at her older sister.  "Fixed!" she called out. 

"I would say that's a yes," Dorian replied, a small smile on his lips.  "But we should really take you both to your mother."

"But," Andra tried to protest.

"I don't think you'll be in as much trouble as you think you are, little one," the mage tried to comfort her. 

"Okay," she pouted in response, standing quickly.  As she bent forward in the attempt to help her sister to her feet, however, Andra suddenly collapsed, falling unconscious to the cold stone beneath her.

"Andra!" Cullen started forward, concern and fear on his face.

"It's alright, Commander," Dorian said as he shifted from where he knelt to gather to now unconscious girl into his arms.  "She's just worn herself out is all." He stood with Andra. "Care to help with the other one?" he asked with a smirk. 

Cullen nodded, moving around Dorian to reach down and pick Bethy up.  "Up you go.  Let's take you to your mother," he said as he settled the child on his hip. "Where's Orana?" he asked no one in particular.  Normally the elven woman was seen corralling the two precocious girls around Skyhold, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"She's helping Hawke with Malcom and Nia," Varric said from where he was standing, just a few feet away from where they had been. 

"Varric…" Dorian said, startled to see the dwarf. 

"It's okay, Sparkler," Varric reassured him.  "I heard of the commotion and got here just in time to see the end of everything.  Seems Giggles, there, just had a rather spectacular, personal, introduction into the world of magic.  Fitting she would be a Spirit Healer."

"You don't seem so surprised," Cullen said.

"Are you kidding?" Varric laughed.  "You've seen the strength of Hawke's magic.  And her father happens to be a walking lyrium deposit," he shook his head in amusement.  "It really was only a matter of time before she manifested with something. Wouldn't surprise me if the other three eventually do as well."

Cullen nodded, considering the dwarf's words. 

"You taking them to Hawke?" Varric asked.

Dorian nodded. "Seemed the best idea."

"I'll come with, if you don't mind.  I haven't seen the twins today."

*****

Ygraine gazed lovingly down at the infant in her arms.  Malcom was finally asleep.  Of the two, he was the crankier.  He was also greedy, constantly hungry.  Nia was currently napping in one of the suite's other rooms in the beautiful, hand carved crib that Varric had commissioned.  Blackwall had asked if she wanted a second one as soon as she revealed she was having twins, but Hawke refused.  The two has spent so much time together already, what harm would it do to keep them in the same crib.  She had found that it may have been one of her best decisions yet. The two seemed to be more content to share the same blanket, fussing in their sleep until the other was finally placed in the crib next to them.  Raine remembered Carver and Bethany being of similar tendencies until they began maturing. 

"Let me put him to bed, mistress," Orana said gently as she entered the room.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing that myself, Orana," she replied with a smile.

"Yes," the elf said, "but you need your rest as much as they do. Don't think I don't know they kept you up most of the night, last night."

Raine smiled. How her mother had survived the early months with the twins until they settled into a normal sleeping routine, she would never know.  "Thank you," she replied softly, trading the child in her arms for the blanket that Orana offered. 

She had just settled comfortably, curled up in the chair by the window and was almost asleep when there was a gentle knock at the door to the suite of rooms the Inquisitor had graciously provided for her and her family.  With a sigh, she made to throw the blanket aside when Orana appeared.  "I'll get it," the gentle elf waved her to remain seated. 

"Nice to see you, Orana," Hawke heard Varric's voice drift through the doorway. "Is Hawke awake?"

"Yes," Hawke called out.  "What is it, Varric?" she tried to sound less tired than she felt.

"Well, Hawke," the dwarf said as he entered the room, followed by Dorian and Cullen, each carrying one of her children, "that is a bit of a story."

"What happened?" she asked, worry replacing exhaustion when she caught sight of Andra, unconscious in Dorian's arms.

"Mama!" Bethy chimed as she saw her mother.  Cullen quickly put the girl down as she began squirming, trying to reach her mother from his arms across the room.  "Look!" she exclaimed as she climbed up into her mother's lap. "It's all better!"

Hawke looked at the three men, confused.

"The short version," Varric said as he sat in the chair next to her, "is that Giggles here is a Spirit Healer."

"Okay," Raine said slowly.  "I think I'll need the long version, if you please."

"None of us actually saw the accident," Cullen began where he stood next to the fireplace. Dorian had disappeared into the children's room, followed by Orana, to settle the girl into her bed. "I was in the garden playing chess with Dorian when we heard Bethy scream.  The best we can guess is that she was trying to climb the stairs to the battlements and tumbled down.  When we got to her, we found the both of them at the foot of the stairs, Andra holding on to Bethy, and Bethy's arm was broken."

"Why didn't you bring them to me?" Hawke asked.

"Andra refused," Cullen answered.  "She was concerned about you having to take care of the twins."

"She was also dreadfully afraid she'd be in trouble for taking her eyes off of her sister long enough for something bad to happen," Dorian added as he reentered the room.  "As well as feeling rather guilty about it.  Kept saying it was her fault."

Hawke nodded. Strong emotion and need were often the trigger for the manifestation of a mage.

"We almost had her convinced to let us bring her to you when…" Dorian waved his hand. "It was beautiful," he finally said.  "Her hand lit up with the most pure blue healing magic I have ever seen."

"She knew what to do?" Hawke asked, somewhat incredulous.

"Well, it is a tribute to you as a parent and a mage that instead of scaring the poor dear to death, it intrigued her.  She was truly excited that she could fix her sister's arm."

"And you thought it wise to let an untrained, manifesting mage heal my daughter?" She dropped her gaze from the mage to lift her daughter's arm.  A faint glow of blue enveloped her hand as she checked over the girl's former injury.

"Yes," Dorian replied, trying not to bristle at Hawke's tone.  He knew she was responding as a mother, though the difference between her and his own mother did not surprise him in the least. "I've seen enough healing with the Inquisition to guide her in properly setting the bone," he explained. "And as a Mortalitiasi, I have a more than adequate knowledge of both anatomy and incorporating the aid of spirits in magic."

"You helped her?" Hawke's tone shifted suddenly to one of gratitude and wonder. Bethy's arm was healed perfectly, no hint of a break in her small arm.

"If there is one thing I have learned about you Southern mages is that you never have anyone to help with the first magical experience.  Your Chantry teaches you to fear anything and everything magical. But you, my dear Hawke, have raised yours to embrace the possibility and wonder of it.  I could see that in her eyes when she realized what she could do.  Though it may be frowned upon, my Tevinter background does not provide me with the same prejudice. I saw no reason to not let her try, and it would have hurt her more to not let her try than if she were to try and fail."

"I agree with Dorian," Cullen added, bringing both Hawke and Varric's shocked gazes to the former Tempar.  "During my time as a Templar, every child I saw turned into the Circle came with a look of fear in their eyes.  I didn't see that in Andra and I would do anything to not see that fear in her. Besides, I may have stopped taking lyrium, but I still retain many of my skills.  She was in no danger of her manifestation going critical."

"Ever the practical, good little Templar knight," Hawke said with a smile, the hint of tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.  "Thank you," she said, her gaze shifting to the room where her daughter now slept.  "She'll be fine, Varric," she said after a moment, knowing why the dwarf had accompanied everyone without having to ask.  "She's just exhausted.  The first time for any mage really does a number on them. For her to work something like this…" her voice faded, running her hand over the now sleeping Bethy's back.  "Fenris and I wondered if she'd be a mage," she continued. 

"Well with your own magic and his lyrium," Varric intoned.

"It's more than that," Hawke replied. 

"What do you mean?" the dwarf asked.  Cullen also looked somewhat worried by her response.

"You remember when I almost died fighting the Arishok?"

Both men nodded. Dorian listened, full of curiosity.

"Anders did a good job patching you up after that if I recall," Varric replied.

"Yes. But only because Fenris allowed him to use his lyrium to augment his healing."

"Broody did what?!" Varric exclaimed.

"After everything it took to get us to the Keep, Anders had nothing left.  His mana was dry.  Somehow, he managed to convince Fenris to let him tap the raw power of his markings."

"I'll be damned," Varric murmured. 

"It wasn't just me that he had to heal, either," Hawke added.

"Wait," Dorian interrupted the conversation, drawing all eyes to him in his excitement. "You're telling us that your daughter was touched, in the womb, with magic from a Spirit Healer who was possessed by a Fade spirit, with the aid of Fenris' markings which, everyone here knows, allows him to step physically in and out of the boundaries of the Fade?"

Hawke nodded.

Cullen looked disturbed.  "When you say it that way," he began.

"She will need careful training," Dorian said.  "Your daughter, by virtue of that experience, will have been born with an affinity to the Fade unlike any other mage.  She will be powerful."

"But also more vulnerable," Hawke added.

"Only in her early years," Dorian agreed.  "Once she has mastered herself and her magic, there should be no need to worry."

"But she needs to master it, first," Cullen said, wariness in his voice.

"Now, Curly," Varric admonished.

"It's okay, Varric," Raine defended the man.  "He has every right to be concerned.  And old habits are hard to break."

Cullen nodded in thanks. 

"Well," Dorian added, "I can't think of any better place for her to be. There are enough mages here, and several Healers that can work with her.  You, Hawke, have already taken the first, most important steps in her training already.  She is not afraid of her magic.  Also, between you and Fenris, she has been ingrained with the virtue that magic, though helpful, needs to be respected and not relied upon for everything."

Hawke looked at him, question in her eyes.

"The bruise she had when I met her," he gestured to his forehead approximately where he remembered Andra having a bruise.  "You didn't heal it.  Neither have you healed the other, various scrapes and bruises I have seen her with over the past two months."

Raine laughed a little at that.  She hadn't thought about it like that.  "Fenris and I thought it best if she learned that choices have consequences. Even if it was something as simple as whether or not to run up stairs."

"Which she still does, I might add," Varric laughed.

"True," Hawke replied. 

"Well," Varric continued as he rose from the chair he had seated himself in. "I think it's time we gentlemen say our goodbyes and allow Hawke to rest up.  Looks like she needs it."

"Thank you," Raine said softly.  "All of you."

With that, the three men left the suite of rooms.  Hawke remained in her chair, falling asleep with Bethy still cradled in her arms, her thoughts focused on the world her eldest child would now inhabit.

*****


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the long wait for this chapter. The Winter Palace quest refused to work with me, and then the holidays happened. Halamshiral is still being obstinate (imagine that), so I've decided to skip it entirely, (no harm done really) and jump straight into the Western Approach and the Fade.
> 
> Updates will still be irregular, but I will try my hardest to not make you wait too long between chapters.

To say that Halamshiral had been a complete and utter cock up would be an understatement. Aedmon was inclined to agree with The Iron Bull. There were greater problems in the world than whose ass was sitting on a throne. The only reason he had felt even remotely moved to interfere with Celene's and Gaspard's Grand Game was to keep Corypheus from making any more of a mess of the world than he already had. Maker did he hate politics.

Still, things worked out well enough. Gaspard was now out of the picture, and Celene owed both her life and her continued place on the throne to him. Hopefully it wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass. But now that it was over, he could focus on more important matters. Matters such as the Grey Wardens and what ever in the Void they were doing out here in the wasteland of the Western Approach.

"There's sand in my clothes," Dorian's disgruntled voice grumbled from just behind him. "Actual sand. In places where it doesn't belong, no less."

"I thought you'd like it here," he replied. "It's far warmer than Skyhold is, and it's less wet than the Fallow Mire."

"Warm though it may be, I don't deserve to have sand in my smallclothes."

Aedmon sighed. There was no way he could win. The mage was going to find something to complain about no matter what. Something had been eating at the man since the Winter Palace, and nothing Aedmon did could help him discover the source of Dorian's annoyance.

"Dorian," he sighed, "if you don't stop complaining, I'll send you to the Emprise. Alone. Without anyone to warm your bedroll."

"You wouldn't," the mage gasped.

Aedmon didn't respond, simply glared at the mage, daring him to continue complaining. The silence only lasted as far as their secondary camp.

As soon as they reached the camp, Dorian grabbed Aedmon by the arm, forcing him into the nearest tent. "What in the Void is wrong with you?" he hissed.

"What is wrong with me?" Aedmon snapped in return. "You want to know what is wrong with _me_? Let's try what is wrong with _you_!" the man pointed at Dorian. "You've done nothing but complain since we got here. And before that, we've hardly had but a handful of conversations since we returned from Halamshiral, and none of those conversations were of any real substance!" He sighed, running his hand over his hair, smoothing down the frayed, frizzed ends that had managed to escape his braid. "I've tried, Maker I've tried to understand. I've tried to be patient. But you're pushing away again and I don't know why." He sighed again. "This isn't the time or place to have this discussion, so it'll have to wait until we get back to Skyhold." Turning, Aedmon left Dorian standing in the middle of the tent, stunned.

"Then why did you bring me along?" the mage whispered, stunned almost to silence, his voice catching Aedmon before he could lift the flap of the tent to leave.

"I don't trust Solas and Viviene's holier-than-thou attitude annoys the hell out of me far more than your spoiled whining," Aedmon said bitterly. "Truthfully, I honestly thought you'd appreciate being somewhere warm for a change. Doesn't seem to matter, though, does it?" He took a step forward, shaking his head in resignation and reaching out to the tent's opening. "You're free to remain in camp tomorrow morning when we set out for the ritual tower, if that's what you want. Maker knows you don't want any more sand in uncomfortable places," the rogue replied without turning around. Without another word, he pushed aside the tent flap and exited, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts.

*****

Dinner that night was a subdued affair, the small group sitting around the campfire, Dorian and Aedmon on opposite sides and not speaking to each other while Varric, Bull and Cassandra tried unsuccessfully to carry the conversation. It wasn't until Fenris arrived with Alistair in tow that things livened up a little.

"Broody!" Varric called out as the elven warrior entered the light from their fire. "It's good to see you. Didn't have much trouble getting here, did you?"

"None that we couldn't handle," the taciturn elf shrugged.

"Good," Varric replied, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small stack of letters. "These are for you," he said as he handed them over.

"So many?"

Varric laughed in response. He almost wanted to tease the elf, what with the way his face lit up knowing those letters came from Hawke. "I think Hawke wrote you a different one every time one of the children did something new."

Fenris smiled as he took the letters, holding them as if they were the most precious things in the world. "How are they?" he asked. "I trust all is well?"

"They're doing fine, Broody. No need to worry yourself about them. They're safe and sound. Still in one piece just like you left them."

"Yet something in your voice tells me something happened?" Fenris pressed.

There was silence around the fire, none of them knowing exactly how to broach the subject of Andra's manifestation as a mage.

"Varric," Fenris warned.

"Well…" the dwarf hesitated. "I don't know how to lead up to it, so I'll just say it." He fidgeted with his gloves, a habit Fenris knew to be only one of very few tells the dwarf had. "Andra's a mage," he glanced up at Fenris, gauging the elf's reaction. "She manifested shortly after you left Skyhold the last time."

Fenris' face was impassive, leaving no way of understanding what emotion, if any was brought about due to such a revelation. The group sat in silence, tense while they waited for his response.

"Ah," was the first sound the elf made. "How did this happen?" he asked tentatively.

"Well, you'd have to ask Sparkler about that. I wasn't there to witness it, but he was."

The elven warrior turned to look at Dorian from across the fire, silently waiting for the mage to enlighten him as to the events that led to his daughter's recent skills mage craft. Dorian, who had been lost in his own thoughts, hadn't heard any of the conversation up until Varric had called him out. He had been too distracted by Aedmon's distance, by the unfinished argument earlier in their tent, to pay attention.

"I'm sorry?" he asked. "I wasn't paying attention."

"I was just telling Fenris that you are the one he needs to ask about Andra's new talents seeing as you're the only one here that has all the details."

"Ah, that. Well…" Dorian took his time telling the story, trying not to leave out any details and answering questions patiently whenever Fenris asked.

"And you helped her with her initial manifestation?" the elf asked.

"Yes. I was the only mage present so it seemed only reasonable. No young child should go through that alone. The Commander was present, as well, though."

Fenris nodded. "A Spirit Healer," he said softly to himself. "Thank you," he nodded. There was a gleam of pride in his eyes as he suddenly stood, clutching his packet of letters closer to himself as he rose. Without a word, he left the light of the fire to sit by himself as he began opening his letters, reading every word that Hawke had sent him.

Sometime during the conversation, Aedmon had wandered from the group and was nowhere to be seen. Assuming the man had retired to bed, Dorian lingered around the fire so as not to have to face him while still possibly awake in their tent. Instead he sat quietly, half in his thoughts, half listening to Varric interrogate Alistair on his and the Hero of Ferelden's various exploits during the Blight. Eventually, though, the Warden tired out and left for his tent, leaving Varric and Dorian the only two still awake.

"You know, Sparkler, if you're waiting for him to go to sleep so you can avoid him, you're going to be up for a while," Varric said as soon as the two of them were alone. "He went of that way a while ago and hasn't made his way back into camp, yet."

"I don't know what you mean," the mage replied, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Uh-huh," Varric grunted. "You're acting the way you did after the fall of Haven, Dorian. I thought the two of you had worked past all this."

"Were it that easy, Varric."

"And why isn't it?"

Dorian chose not to reply, staring off in the direction that Varric had indicated Aedmon having left camp. Varric, tired and frustrated, stood and left the mage alone in his thoughts for the second time that day, staring out into the dark of the night.

*****

It wasn't hard for Fenris to find a quiet place to sit and read his letters, but try as he may, he couldn't focus on their words. Though he craved to read Raine's words, he didn't wish to read them in the presence of the others and the dim light away from the campfire made it difficult. Also, there was the matter of how tense the camp felt when they first arrived. He couldn't quite say exactly what the tension was or where it came from, but he could guess. So it was no surprise when he watched Aedmon slip quietly out of the circle of tents and wander a little way out into the desert.

He watched for a while to see if Dorian would follow, but when the mage did not, Fenris knew his suspicions had been correct. Things were not well between the Tevinter mage and the Inquisitor. He knew he shouldn't interfere. Whatever had happened between the two men was their own affair. But then he thought of his own past, of how his friends had interfered between him and Raine. His mind drifted back to that moment when he felt Andra cradled in Anders' magic, barely hanging on to life after Hawke defeated the Arishok. He had almost lost her then and didn't even know she existed. Every smile she gave him was a gift, rare and precious. Her being a mage changed nothing in his mind. Nor did it surprise him. She came from a long line of magic. Malcolm Hawke aside, the Amell line itself was steeped deeply in magic since before the Fourth Blight. It was only a matter of time before the other three of his children manifested as well. His mind drifted to Bethy and to the twins, newly born before they left Skyhold. He would have none of this, none of what he was currently fighting for if it weren't for his friends.

Looking out across the desert, his eyes settled on the lone, shadowed form of the Inquisitor. It seemed Dorian was not going follow. Turning his gaze back towards the camp, he saw the mage staring off into the distance, in the direction of where Trevelyan now stood. There was a wistful, sad look to the mage's eyes. Fenris continued to watch in silence as Dorian shook his head in a resignation completely at odds with the longing in his gaze before standing and silently drifting off towards a tent to retire for the night.

He knew he shouldn't interfere.

Quietly, he stood from where he sat observing the camp and its surroundings. He wasn't going to meddle. Meddling was Varric's thing. Yet strangely he found his feet carrying him towards Trevelyan. Though his feet barely made any sound as they drifted across the still warm sands of the Approach, the Inquisitor turned towards him as he made his way near. Despite it being darker there, away from camp, Fenris could clearly see the pain, mixed with frustration and loneliness, etched deeply in the Inquisitor's eyes before it was quickly covered with the mask of his title.

*****

Trevelyan stood, staring out into the empty desert of the Approach, watching as the stars moved in their gentle cycle across the distant horizon. They were calming in their steady, unwavering progress. They were consistent. Unlike his temperamental and somewhat fickle lover. He rubbed his arms against the chill of the night. Surprisingly, though hotter than the Void during the day, the nights in the Approach were bracingly chilled. He chuckled a little at the irony. Originally, he had thought to bring Dorian because the days were warm. It was something of a peace offering for having dragged him across countless snow covered mountains and wet, freezing bogs.

It didn't seem to matter, though. The man was determined to find something wrong regardless. The sound of feet sliding gently through the sand brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings. Turning, he saw Fenris, his marking gleaming gently in the moonlight, making his way quietly in his direction.

"Fenris," he nodded, quickly schooling his features. He had hoped it was Dorian that he heard, and he didn't wish for the elf to see his disappointment.

"Inquisitor," Fenris replied as he came to a stop, standing beside him and looking out across the desert landscape.

They stood that way for several moments, sharing the companionable silence of the night, neither looking at the other. He didn't know what brought the elven warrior out into the night with him. He also didn't want to ask. For some unknown reason, his presence was comforting, abating, even if just a little, the loneliness of the dark.

"It was hard for me to accept Raine's affections at first," Fenris' voice broke the silence. "I know nothing of my life before Danarius, before these markings. My entire world, for the longest time, was being his slave. When I met her, all I saw was another mage. But, as the years passed, as I got to know her as well as our other companions, I realized that I was missing more than just memories. Emotionally, I was still a slave. My entire existence had been twisted. It had revolved around one being for so long, I didn't know how to be a friend, a lover. I still struggle with it some days. But when I see her, see our children…" his voice faded, disappearing into the darkness.

Aedmon was taken slightly aback. Everything he knew of the elf said that he was a very private man, and a man of few words. To hear him speak so intimately had him at a loss for words. Not knowing how to respond, he remained silent.

"Be patient with him," Fenris finally said, his gaze still directed out across the sand.

"I have tried," Aedmon sighed. "Maker knows how I have tried. It is never enough."

"It is enough," Fenris replied, gently rebuking him. "Dorian is much the same as I was all those years ago," Fenris continued. "Though our situations are completely disparate, his chains, though they are not physical, they are no less real. He was born to privilege. As the sole heir to the Pavus line, he was raised with the constant expectation that he would marry and produce an heir. Tevinter society dictates that his desires in this matter are moot. That Dorian flaunted his inclinations was beyond scandal, and as a result, every action, every friendship, would have been scrutinized. At every chance, he would have been told that he was wrong, deviant and unacceptable. A shame against his family and his country. I know well how years of emotional abuse take their toll on the mind. It will take time, and patience, to heal."

Aedmon let Fenris' words sink in. For all his thinking, his obsessing over the difficulties between him and Dorian, never had it the problem been put into words so clearly.

"I see the way he looks at you. Do not give up just yet," Fenris concluded.

"Thank you," Aedmon whispered.

Fenris nodded in response. "Good night, Inquisitor," he said softly before returning to the now deserted fire to read his letters.

Aedmon remained just outside the camp for a while longer, considering Fenris' words. He had known that there would be no simple solution to this. But he had also believed that it wouldn't be so difficult. With a sigh, he turned back into camp and found his tent. Inside, Dorian lay curled up, shivering slightly against the chill of the night. Trevelyan couldn't help but chuckle a little at the sight. It seemed that his lover was doomed to fight a continuously losing battle against the cold. After a brief amount of shifting, Aedmon managed to line his bedroll up next to Dorian's without waking the mage and, after adding his blankets to the ones on top of the chilled mage, he slipped underneath their cover, gently pulling Dorian back against his chest and into the warmth of his embrace.

*****

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unplanned trip through the Fade as well as an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. We all know that BioWare is fond of their critical either/or choices. (This is not a complaint... not really.) But damn, I had a hard time with this one the first time through. So if you haven't read "Crossroads", the middle part of this series, it's not really necessary, but it does explain a lot so I would suggest giving it a quick read. It's not very long (just 4 chapters). If not, I've left enough exposition in this to help you understand (hopefully). Also, I've rewritten the Nightmare dialogue. Forgive me for the liberties I've taken, but this seemed more appropriate for the characters as I've set them up.
> 
> Now... I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy the chapter! Comments are more than welcome!

If someone had asked Dorian how he thought his day would have ended, trudging through knee deep water, fighting off demon after demon, and being tormented by the disembodied voice of his worst fears come to life while trapped in the Fade wouldn't have even made the list of possibilities. Yet here he was, his eyes growing fatigued as the eerie green cast to the light of the Fade created a dull ache that settle just behind them.

"And what about you, Dorian?" the voice continued. It had already verbally eviscerated most of the party and had moved on to him. The only ones left for it to torment other than him were Fenris and Aedmon. "Such a failure. No matter how hard you try, your father will never be proud of you, not with your scandalous proclivities. Did you really think anyone could truly love you? You're perverse, deviant, a traitor to your country. You will never be worthy of love. No one in Tevinter will ever respect you after this. You who stood in the way of returning your homeland to its true glory."

Dorian froze, his feet stumbling to a halt as the words tumbled over their small group. He refused to look up, trembling as he felt Aedmon come up beside him. "Don't listen to it, Dorian," the rogue said as he laid a gentle hand on the mage's shoulder. "We both know how wrong it is. Your father's an ass that doesn't know how good he has it in you as a son. You're trying to save your country from its own shortsighted arrogance." Dorian shrugged. The words felt hollow in his ears. "Hey," Aedmon continued. "Look at me," he cajoled, his hand moving from Dorian's shoulder to his neck, his calloused thumb caressing the mage's jaw with a gentleness that helped bring Dorian out of the stupor he had fallen in to. "I love you. And that will never change."

Dorian's eyes widened as the words shook him to his core. "You've never…"

"No, I haven't," Aedmon replied. "I haven't for fear that the words would frighten you away. But you need to hear them now." He leaned in, his forehead resting against Dorian's. "I know it's not the ideal circumstances to hear them the first time, but look in my eyes and tell me that those words aren't true."

The mage lifted his gaze, searching Aedmon's eyes. His mind sifted through their time together. Never had someone pursued him as Aedmon had. The man had been relentless in his courtship, yet at the same time, paradoxically patient and gentle. He never shied away from letting Dorian know his interest, yet he allowed Dorian to take the necessary steps in their relationship at his own pace. Even after their last argument, when Dorian had so callously pushed the man away again, he still woke to the warm, forgiving embrace of his lover.

"Amatus…" he breathed, sinking in to Aedmon's arms. The rogue cradled Dorian gently in his arms, tucking the mage's head against his shoulder as he kissed the top of Dorian's head. Dorian took strength from that simple gesture and after a moment, though reluctantly, he straightened, leaving the encircling warmth of his lover.

With a brief nod, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his head defiantly. The rest of the group, who had the courtesy to stand a little to the side, all nodded in reply. Not a one of them looked offended or disgusted by the display they pretended to not see or overhear. All except Cassandra and Varric, that is. Cassandra's eyes shone with a romantic light, wistful and slightly teary, though he knew the woman would deny it to her last breath. He had no doubt that in her mind, she was seeing the situation much like she would were she reading one of Varric's absurd romance novels. Still, she, like the others, had the decency to at least try and attempt to look like she had not been paying attention to the conversation. Varric, on the other hand, looked like he was cataloguing mental notes, writing a new chapter in his latest serial in his mind as he did it. The group's complete and total support rang through the silence and Dorian marveled at their utter lack of judgment and unrelenting acceptance, holding it close to his heart where it warmed him, giving him the courage to continue on.

*****

Fenris bristled more with each step they took through the Fade. The last time he was here, things did not end well. Memories of his betrayal stung him, picking at his thoughts with out ceasing. He would not be so weak this time.

"Fenris," the deep voice of the Nightmare echoed across the Fade. "Look at you, still beholden to a mage. You were never truly free. You just traded one collar for another. Do you truly think Hawke loves you? What could she possibly find appealing in someone as broken as you? And what of Andra? You and your companions are trying to rob me of my army. Denying me my chance to walk in your world. But maybe I don't need them. Not anymore. Maybe I'll take your precious little girl. Your little miracle. I'll possess her mind and ride her body throughout all of Thedas. You think Anders created suffering? What the abomination and his pet demon did will pale in comparison to the power I will gain through her."

The elf roared in rage. "You will not have her!" he shouted to the eerie green sky, his brands flashing with blinding intensity. "I will die destroying you before I let you touch her!"

"Easy there, Broody," Varric said soothingly as he warily approached the elven warrior. "You might want to put an end to the glowing before you bring every demon in the area down on our heads."

"He will not have her!" Fenris growled menacingly.

"We know that. We won't let that happen," the dwarf reassured. "But you really have to stop with the glowing or we'll have a whole mess of trouble before we can get to the rift ahead."

Fenris tried to slow his breathing, calming his raging heart. Varric was right. He needed to calm himself before he attracted trouble. Yet, it was difficult to do. There was still a part of him that feared mages. Feared the power they held. He knew he would never be completely free of it, no matter how much his views had changed. He had learned through Hawke that it wasn't magic that was evil. It was how magic is used that had the potential for being evil. Regardless, the thought of his precious little girl being tormented in her dreams by any demon terrified him on a level he had never before experienced.

"You know," Aedmon interrupted, "I think I see a pride demon just over there that needs to be taken down a notch or two." He nodded to the up the slope they were coming to the crest of.

One hard fight and a dead pride demon later, Fenris finally calmed to a point that he could continue. "We should move on," he said firmly to the group as he looked to Aedmon to continue leading them through the Fade.

*****

Aedmon kept moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other. There was nothing else he could do. A tense silence surrounded the group as they continued. Every one of them had been mentally eviscerated by the Nightmare, and now it was his turn.

"You couldn't even protect your own sister," the Nightmare continued. "How do you expect to lead thousands to victory? Would they even want to follow you, knowing how much of a failure you are? Would they continue to put their trust, their very lives in your hands if they knew you did nothing to save her?"

"Corypheus murdered her," he said firmly, hoping that his voice held true. "And I won't waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. I will not give you the satisfaction."

The Nightmare laughed, low and malicious.

"It is just through here," Faith/Justinia called out. "Do not linger. It grows weaker the more you challenge it. Hurry. Now is the time." With her last thoughts a message for Liliana, the Divine lunged for the Nightmare, distracting it enough for Aedmon and his group to begin weakening its powers.

The fight continued for what seemed forever. Though time in the Fade passes differently than the real world. For all Aedmon knew it could have been only minutes. But after what seemed to be an age, they finally defeated the army of lesser terrors and demons that had gathered to feed off the remnants of what the Nightmare left behind. Their relief, however, was short lived as they turned toward the rift to find the Nightmare blocking their path. Though weakened by the Divine, and suffering the loss of its minions, it still presented a formidable foe.

"One of us will have to stay behind to keep it off the others," Aedmon heard the voice of Alistair at his shoulder.

Aedmon hesitated. He didn't want to make the choice. How could he? His mind spiraled through what little options they had left, trying to see if there was some other way.

"I will do it," Fenris volunteered, stepping up to Alistair. "You are needed to put the Wardens back together."

"Broody…" Varric gasped.

"You have a family," Alistair replied. "What of Andra and Bethy? Of the twins?"

"He is correct," a new voice rang from behind them. "You have a family to protect. And the former prince is needed to rebuild the Wardens."

The group turned towards the newcomer to find a towering warrior, fully armored, a winged helm on his head approaching from the entrance to the Nightmare's lair.

"Is that…?" Varric gasped.

Fenris bristled, readying himself for another battle.

"I mean you know harm," Justice continued, motioning for Fenris to relax. "And we have no time to discuss this. This is my fault, and I will correct it."

"But how?" Varric asked, bewildered.

"I was freed to return to the Fade after you handed Anders over to the Chantry for judgment," Justice answered, turning his gaze towards the dwarf. "Since then I have watched the consequences of our actions, the injustice we let loose upon the world. Were it not for our actions, this may never have happened. I do not ask for forgiveness," he turned his gaze back towards Fenris. "But I do ask that you allow me to at least attempt to help right the balance that we have so wrongly upset in the world. Andra needs you. As does Hawke and the rest of your family."

Aedmon watched the scene as it unfolded before him, unsure as to what he was actually seeing. Who was this new spirit? And why did Fenris look so hostile towards it? He readied himself for another fight, moving a step closer to the elf just in case.

"Please," Justice continued. "Tell Hawke that I am sorry for the pain that we caused her. Anders never held it against her for turning him over to the Chantry. It was the just decision to make."

And with those words, the spirit charged past them, throwing himself at the Nightmare, his sword held high as his shield knocked one of the demon's massive legs out from under it.

"Go!" he shouted as he continued to distract the demon.

Without another word or thought, Aedmon opened the rift, pushing his people through it and across to the other side. Fenris, however, lingered just a moment, his eyes on the blue figure fighting the Nightmare.

"Fenris," Aedmon called out, pulling the elf's attention towards him. "Raine will kill me if I leave you behind."

With a last glance at the spirit he never thought he would see again, Fenris turned towards the rift the Inquisitor was struggling to maintain open. Moments later, he fell to the ground in the courtyard of Adamant.

*****

 


End file.
